Renzo pauses, hotel key card in his hand.
The card is black, heavy, slick with fingerprints that aren’t mine. Jules left it on the counter like a dare—no explanation, just a look that said follow me or don’t.
I told myself I wouldn’t. That this was his game, not mine.
But now, hours later, I’m standing in a boutique hotel lobby that hums with money and late-night promises.
The woman at the desk doesn’t ask questions—this place thrives on secrets. When I slide the card across the marble, she only nods.
Elevator mirrors don’t lie. My hair’s still damp from the rain, shirt clinging in ways that beg for questions I don’t want answered. By the time the bell dings, my pulse has rewritten itself into a rhythm I can’t slow.
The room is on the eighth floor. Number 814.
I turn the card over in my hand once, twice—thinking about Jules, about debts, about that name he whispered. Then I swipe. The light blinks green.
The room smells faintly of bergamot and old money. Curtains drawn, city lights flickering through a sliver. Someone’s been here—bed unmade, glass on the nightstand, a jacket draped across the chair. Not Jules’s jacket.
I step inside. The door clicks shut behind me, and the air turns thick, too warm. My shirt goes first, peeled off and tossed to the floor.
A shadow shifts in the adjoining room. Slow. Deliberate. Like it wants to be seen.
“Late,” a voice says. Male. Not Jules. Deeper. Smooth as smoke.
My hand finds the silver ring, spinning it without thought. My mouth opens, but the voice cuts me off.
“You still answer to that other name.”
The Polaroid camera strap burns against my wrist, reminding me I shouldn’t be here. But I am.
And when the man steps into view—dark suit, no tie, eyes sharp enough to cut—I know Jules didn’t send me here by accident. This isn’t about a photograph. It’s about who holds the debt.
Next on Renzo: After Hours
Episode 03 — Neon Balcony
Rain-slick stone. A rooftop dare. And Renzo learns not all invitations are meant to be refused.
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