The athletic wing of Northcrest was a glass and steel tomb that smelled like expensive rubber and filtered oxygen. I walked down the hallway, my chest feeling like a zip-tie was being tightened around my lungs with every step.
I had exactly forty-five minutes before Zane Miller expected me at the East Gate. Forty-five minutes to find Roman and figure out if Marcus’s new pet detective was just a scare tactic or the beginning of the end.
I didn't bother knocking when I reached the private boxing suite. I just shoved the heavy door open.
The room was dim, lit only by the blue hum of a sports drink fridge. Roman was there, shirtless, his back a map of tensed muscle as he absolutely unloaded on a heavy bag. Thud. Thud. Crack. He wasn't practicing form; he was trying to kill the thing. His kn
