No One Owns Me

Chapter 3 — The Warehouse

The tunnel wraps around us like a cold, damp fist the moment the hidden door clicks shut. The roar of gunfire fades to a dull, muffled thrum—like thunder rolling miles away, or a heartbeat pressed too tight against your ear.

I keep moving, one hand brushing the rough concrete wall to steady myself. Duncan is right behind me; I can hear his breath, the faint scuff of his boots. Ward is somewhere to my left, and the rest of the Kings follow in single file. No one speaks. There’s nothing to say.

The air reeks of mildew and stagnant water. Droplets plop from the ceiling into shallow puddles, the sound sharp and too loud in the dark. I hate tight spaces. I hate the dark. But most of all I hate the unknown—every shadow could hide a threat, every turn a dead end. But stopping never kept me alive. So I keep walking.

A faint glow bleeds ahead. Ward holds up a fist, and we all freeze. He crouches, aiming his torch down at the ground.

“Look.”

Fresh boot prints press deep into the silt—heavy, thick-soled, at least three separate sets.

“They’re not just using this tunnel,” I say quietly. “They know it’s there.”

Duncan’s voice drops low. “Which means we walked right into their trap.”

I glance back the way we came, then forward again. “When have we ever done anything else?”

We press on, until the tunnel yawns open into a cramped underground chamber. Rusting pipes snake across the ceiling like iron veins; a splintered wooden table leans against one wall, surrounded by rotting crates stacked waist-high.

I step toward the nearest crate. Burned deep into its side is a jagged symbol: a crown split down the middle.

My stomach twists tight. “The Crown.”

Duncan steps up beside me. “You know it?”

“Too well.” I’ve seen it stamped on documents Lorenzo kept locked in his study, painted on the sides of unmarked vans, carved into the gates of buildings I never dared go near. It’s haunted my whole life, but I never understood why.

“Casey?” Duncan presses gently.

I turn away. “I said I don’t know.”

He doesn’t push—not yet.

Ward pries open the lid of the central crate. “Guys. You need to see this.”

It’s crammed full of manila folders, hundreds of them, all neatly labelled.

“Don’t touch—” I start, but he’s already lifted the top one.

The name typed across the front makes my blood turn to ice.

GRANT, CASEY.

Silence swallows the room. Duncan takes the folder, his hands moving slow, like he’s handling broken glass. When he looks up, his face is pale. “How long have they been watching you?”

I reach for it, and this time he lets go. My fingers shake as I flip it open. Every detail is there: full name, date of birth, every address I’ve ever lived at, every school, every scar, every doctor’s note from my brain surgery.

And then the photographs.

Me at five, sitting on Duncan’s shoulders at a fairground, sunlight gilding his hair. My mother laughing beside us. Me playing in the garden of our old house. Candid shots, taken from a distance, hidden angles. Memories I thought had dissolved after the surgery, gone forever.

I trace the edge of the photo. “I remember this day. But I didn’t know anyone took it.”

Duncan leans in, his voice thick. “They’ve been watching you since before you were old enough to walk.”

I turn the page. Two lines are typed in bold black ink:

SUBJECT STATUS: PROTECTED

PROJECT HEIR

“Project Heir,” I whisper.

Ward leans over my shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?”

Duncan’s gaze hardens. “It means they never lost track of you. And now that file’s open—every faction tied to the Crown will come running.”

I snap the folder shut. “They’re already coming.”

“I’ve spent seventeen years hiding you,” he says, and the raw pain in his voice stops me cold. “I thought I kept you safe.”

“You didn’t,” I say, quiet but firm. “But I’m done hiding anyway.”

Ward’s torch glints off something further back. “Over here.”

He’s found a heavy steel door, almost completely hidden behind stacked crates. Carved dead-centre is the same split crown, and a single keyhole beneath it.

I reach into my jacket. The small cold metal key I’ve carried for months sits right where it always has.

Duncan blinks. “Where did you get that?”

“From the man I called Dad,” I say. “Lorenzo. He gave it to me the day I turned sixteen. Said I’d know when to use it.”

I slot it into the lock. It won’t turn. I try again—nothing.

“Maybe it’s broken,” Ward says.

I lean closer. “No. Look.”

Beneath the first keyhole, cut low and almost invisible, is a second one.

“Two keys,” Duncan says. “We don’t have the other.”

I pull my lock-pick kit from my backpack, the worn leather familiar in my hand. “Who needs it?”

Ward huffs a laugh. “Of course you carry lock picks. Why would you carry anything normal?”

“Normal gets you killed,” I say, kneeling. “Step back.”

Duncan opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. “Be careful.”

The tools click soft and steady in the dark. Once. Twice. A third, deeper shift.

The heavy bolt slides back with a low groan. The door swings open on its own, spilling cold air into the room.

This isn’t another tunnel. It’s a vault.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, crammed with files, leather-bound journals, old photographs, and sealed boxes. In the exact centre sits a solid oak table, and resting there is a thick black book, the split crown carved deep into its cover. Beneath it, chiselled into the wood: THE CROWN REGISTER.

I walk forward like I’m in a dream, every step heavy. When I lift the cover, the first page is faded, ink sharp and dark:

DE VITO • MORETTI • GRANT

Three families. Bound together.

I turn the pages. Hundreds of names, dates, payments, meetings, disappearances, deaths—all the secrets the Crown buried. Then one name repeats, over and over, in every section: DANIEL CROSS.

I look up at Duncan. “You know him.”

He doesn’t deny it. “He worked with your father. Trusted him more than anyone.”

“Why is he everywhere in this book?”

Ward pulls another file from the shelf. “There’s more.”

Inside are old photos: my mother, Duncan, Lorenzo… and a fourth man, his face scratched out with jagged lines.

“Who is that?” I ask.

Duncan stares at it for a long time. “I don’t know. Not anymore.”

Before I can speak, footsteps echo from the tunnel. Slow, deliberate, getting closer.

Ward draws his gun. Duncan raises his, moving to stand between me and the door. I shove the black book deep into my bag, my grip tight.

“Leave it,” Duncan hisses. “If they catch you—”

“It’s the only truth we have,” I snap back.

The footsteps stop right outside. The door creaks open.

A man steps through. Tall, grey at the temples, a pale scar slicing across his left cheek. He looks straight at me, and his face softens like he’s seen a ghost.

I know him. I’ve seen his face in the margins of old photos Lorenzo kept hidden.

“Daniel Cross,” I breathe.

He nods. “Hello, Casey.”

Duncan’s aim doesn’t waver. “You’re dead. We buried you.”

Daniel gives a tired, sad smile. “So you thought. So everyone thought.”

He moves to reach into his jacket, and Duncan’s gun clicks. “Don’t.”

Slowly, carefully, Daniel pulls out a plain cream envelope. “Your father asked me to give this to you. If you ever found the register.”

My name is written across the front in looping, familiar script. Lorenzo’s handwriting. My hands shake so bad I almost drop it.

“Open it,” Daniel says gently.

Inside is one sheet of paper, four words written in the same hand:

FIND YOUR SISTER FIRST.

The room spins. “Sister?” I look from Daniel to Duncan, my throat tight. “What sister?”

Daniel closes his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opens them, everything changes.

“You were never an only child, Casey. She was taken the same day you were separated from your father.”

A gunshot booms somewhere above us, sharp and close. Voices shout, faint but clear. The fight at the clubhouse is coming here.

But suddenly Lorenzo isn’t the monster I’m running from anymore. Not really.

Now I have a sister to find. And an entire hidden history that’s been waiting for me my whole life.