E L A R A
The resort is different at night.
By day, Isla Seraphine gleams like a jewel, lanterns swaying, champagne poured in endless streams, boardwalks polished until they blind. But past midnight, when the last guests stumble into suites and the music cuts out, silence takes over. The orchids wilt in their vases, shadows stretch long and skeletal, and every creak of the building sounds like a warning.
That’s when Ethan Kane calls me in.
The operations office is buried in the back wing of the resort, far from the glossy lobby and the cameras. It smells of printer ink and disinfectant, the hum of the fluorescent lights constant in the empty corridor. When I push the door open, I find him already waiting, a desk lamp the only glow in the room.
He doesn’t look up at first. Just flips a
