Divorced by the Devil Rider

CHAPTER 14 — HELLHOUNDS PREPARE

CHAPTER 14 — THE GRID SHIFTS

A week passed, and I was still blind. No one explained who the man with the broken eyes and worn-out boots was—the security dragged him out, then the whole building suddenly fell silent. Now, every corner of the corridor feels wrong.

That's the most disturbing. Worse than the dark stain on the hallway carpet that I believed was blood—before the janitor brushed it so clean that I began to doubt my own memory. Worse than the way Kade suddenly appeared at my door, standing frozen without a sound, answering my every question with a puzzle until I felt like hitting something.

The silence that followed afterwards felt heavy. As if the whole building made a secret deal that excluded me.

The world is shifting. Just a little—like an invisible road hole that damages the balance of the wheels. I can still touch my belongings—cups, door handles, windows—but the ownership feels faded. As if there was another hand that had already claimed it.

The first clue is the elevator. Usually the machine stops right when I press the number 23. Now, he crawled doubtfully. And when it arrives...

He was held back. The beat is too long. I counted every second—one mission, two—while weighing whether the emergency stairs were a safer option. It feels like someone is verifying my entry permit.

Yesterday morning, I was standing there with an unreasonably heavy briefcase—full of files I don't remember ever packing—watching the digital numbers climbing. 18... 19... 20... Then the number 23 lit up brightly and froze.

Silence. There is no hum, no mechanical click, only the number is looking back. Finally the jingle came, the door slid open slowly which was torturous.

Empty. There is not a single soul—not even a flower courier who usually paces back and forth to the penthouse.

The shiny steel floor reflected my tired face. No message, no sign. I stepped in—after all, what was the option? Hide forever? The bill won't pay itself. Three weeks ago, my life was still normal.

I kept glancing at the camera on the ceiling all the way down. Not a blatant look—just a frown on my forehead when my eyes caught the lens. It felt stupid, but I could feel the back gaze from behind the black glass.

Today, it's the turn of the changing lobby. Miles—a receptionist with scars on his eyebrows who usually always has a joke about the weather—didn't even lift his head when I came in.

The greeting is gone. His head was stiff, his hands were folded on the table, his eyes were glued to the screen as if he was reading his own death certificate. He didn't do anything wrong. That's exactly what's weird.

He is too careful. His eyes moved in a measured rhythm, following the lines of instructions that he had memorized. He is playing a figure who doesn't know me, even though we both know it's a lie.

I walked towards the glass door—the sound of my heels hitting the marble sounded like an explosion in that too quiet room. I ignored the fountain that suddenly stopped foaming. I mapped the escape route: the main door, the side lane of the mail room, the emergency stairs behind the fake plant.

I also saw a man leaning against the door, his head down staring at his phone.

The screen is black and dead. I was close enough to see my own reflection on his phone glass—walking too stiff, hands clenched in pockets. But he didn't see me there. He was looking at the mirror on his back wall. Watching me without having to turn my neck.

My stomach is nauseous. My steps almost stopped, but I forced myself to keep moving forward. To stop means to admit that I know. And if I know, then this fear becomes real.

I pushed the door out and the cold air hit my face. The wind whipped my hair, forcing me to stop for a moment to tidy it up. I took a breath—the air felt thin, sharp like broken glass that cut my throat.

I kept walking towards the garage across the street. Without turning his head. Without running, even though every nerve in my body screams to spur speed.

Running means prey. Prey means easy target.

I got to the car—a dark blue sedan full of scratches that had accompanied me since college—and my hands began to betray. The shaking was smooth, but enough to make the car key miss twice from the hole.

I hate that. I hate how this situation has changed the way I move. I went in, slammed the door until the car swayed, then locked every door—even the back door that I had never touched.

I sat still clutching the steering wheel. The clock on the dashboard is blinking at 08:47, repeatedly.

Just breathe. Waiting for something to happen—a man from the lobby walking closer, a knock on the glass, or a phone ringing with a strange number.

My ears searched for sounds—footsteps, open doors, running engines.

Nothing. Only the buzzing of street lights and the roar of distant traffic. It's much worse—waiting for bad news that doesn't come.

On the other side of the city, inside a windowless building that I will never find, they are dissecting my life.

Hellhounds don't know panic. They work in cold preparation. Maps, lists, and backup plans on top of backup plans.

Kade stood near the big screen—not at the head of the table, only on the edge, becoming a shadow that observes. His hands were folded, his face was a blank canvas that did not give any information.

The map on the wall shows the whole city in a pulse of light. Red for their area, yellow for the gray zone.

Then there is a new point that infiltrates. White. Flashing right above the neighborhood of my apartment. An anomaly.

"They are fishing," Marcus furiously, leaning forward until his fingers leave oil marks on the table. "See how quickly we react."

The older man at the end of the table broke his sentence with the calmness of an executioner. "Not speed, Marcus. It's an amateur affair."

He paused until the whole room was fixed on him. "They are testing the deed of ownership. They want to know who actually owns this asset."

The silence fell to crush the room. Everyone understands the meaning. Ownership means war. Ownership means a line above the land that must be paid with blood.

Kade's face didn't change, but his fist tightened for half a second before relaxing again.

"Three scouts near the building," someone reported, sliding the tablet towards Kade. The photos are blurry, but the figures hiding behind the shadows are clearly visible. "Maybe more. They blend very neatly."

"They haven't touched it yet."

"Not yet."

The word hangs, heavy and poisonous. Everyone knows 'not yet' is a time bomb waiting 'now'.

Kade spoke up—his voice was low but absolute. "Fold double sif. Every access, every place he goes. Eyes must be glued to him for twenty-four hours."

No one objected. "Safe building?" Someone asked.

"The key has been changed twice, the camera is in every corner, the security has been instructed." Pause for a moment. "As far as we know. If they want to get in, they will find the loophole."

Ryder is in the back row, fused with the wall. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't offer advice, doesn't make eye contact.

He doesn't need to do it. He had a piece of puzzle that no one else in the room had—who was behind the white light, and what exactly were they aiming for. He has spent weeks stringing together this information, waiting for the right moment.

The phone in his pocket feels hot, buried deep so that it can't be seen. He won't take it out here. Not under the supervision of Kade who can read other people's heartbeats. That's stupid.

He waited until the meeting disbanded, until the room only left the smell of bitter coffee and sweat.

Only then did he move. He walked slowly to the table, took out his phone, and opened it with one hand. The message is already there, saved in the draft. Ready to be released.

He stared at the screen for a long time—making sure he had calculated every consequence. Not a doubt, just a calculation.

He pressed send. The phone gives a smooth click. The message had shot into the darkness.

That feeling came again last night. After the rest of the pizza is cold and the hot water bath turns into ice. No sound, no touch—just an atmospheric shift.

As if the air in my apartment is no longer mine. As if these walls have ears, and those windows have eyes.

I checked each key twice—the front door, the balcony, even the broken key in the bathroom window. I felt for the window frame, looking for the slightest sign.

Everything is locked tightly. The curtains are closed. Technically, I'm safe.

But I feel like an intruder in my own home—like a hotel guest who forgets to pay and waits to be kicked out at any time.

I sat on the edge of the bed, holding a phone that was fully charged. The screen shines brightly in the dark. I didn't call anyone. I just hold it like a talisman, as if the plastic can keep me real.

As if that thing could reconnect me with the girl who used to text about stupid TV shows and work deadlines. I want to stay me—not just the name they talk about, not just a white dot flashing on someone's map.

Besides, I don't know who to call. My mother is three states away—I don't want her to be scared. My friends are busy with their new lives. I can't tell them that my life is no longer mine. That I'm trapped in something that has no way out.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling. Silence. Waiting.

I don't remember when exactly eyes…