CHAPTER 181: CAUGHT!!!

Somewhere on the ragged edge of Silverline City, where the highway thinned into a two-lane memory and neon signs gave up and went to sleep, a tired motel blinked its tired lights. The kind of place that smelled of old coffee and cleaner, where every wallpaper seam told a story and the sheets remembered more faces than any guest would admit.

A man in a black jacket pushed open the glass to the reception cabin. The bell gave a soft, polite ring that sounded too cheerful for the hour. Behind the counter a young receptionist looked up with a practiced smile that had learned to hide surprise.

"How can I help you, sir" she asked, hands already reaching for the logbook.

He moved like someone who carried winter in his bones. "I need a room," he said. His voice was low and even. Nothing in it invited small talk.

She flicked through the ledger. The motel had been quiet all week, but tonight the board read full. "Apologies, sir, there are no rooms available at the moment," she said, apologetic and efficient.

He named a number. "Room 111."

The receptionist blinked. "How many days are you staying, sir"

"Three," he answered without hesitation.

"Do you want meal service as well" she added, because forms were easier than fear.

"Only breakfast."

Her fingers danced across the terminal. She keyed in a code, lips forming the numbers like a small prayer. Then, with a faint mechanical whirr the wall behind the counter shifted. A seam opened. A secret elevator door yawned where the plaster had been.

A flash of something like curiosity crossed her face, then she closed it with professional calm. "Alright, sir. Here you go."

He offered a small, near-imperceptible nod, then stepped toward the elevator. The metal doors closed with the soft dignity of a closed book.

Down, one floor below, the air cooled and the smell of grease and exhaust thinned into dust and old paper. The elevator sighed and deposited him before a heavy door. He knocked with knuckles that did not tremble.

"Come in," an old voice said from inside. It was voice worn by patience and a long list of debts.

He pushed the door and walked into a room that had stopped pretending to be tidy. Shelves bowed under the weight of books, files and yellowing index cards. A lamp burned with a brown shade. The old man turned toward him. His hair had the snow of a long, patient winter. His back was a map of an old war. But his eyes were still sharp, small black lights that registered every detail.

The old man frowned. "Who are you" he asked, confusion knitting his brows. He did not look at the visitor as a threat at first. He looked at him as at a name on a sheet long unread.

The man in black jacket smiled once, without warmth. "Never thought you were old, Clown."

The name landed on the old man’s face like a stone. He straightened as if someone had tugged a string at the base of his skull. "My time has passed," he answered slowly. "I don’t know who gave you my address, but I am not really a broker anymore. I cannot help you crack any deals."

The man stepped closer, so close the old man could count the faint scar that ran like a punctuation mark along his jaw. "Oh, you can, Clown," he said. "Commander Ray is inviting you to the base. Answer him a few things and then you can come back."

A breath left the old man that might have been a laugh once, or a cough. He reached unconsciously for the shelf as if to steady himself. "Ray" he whispered, as if the name was a flame that might catch the curtains.

The man behind him produced movement like a blade. A gun gleamed black and honest in his hand, its presence a simple fact in the air. "Don’t make things hard for yourself," he said flatly. "Come with me."

The old man’s eyes moved fast now, darting toward the door, measuring. Fear did not cloud them so much as sharpen them. He had met plenty of men like this in his life; men who thought a gun was the final argument. He had met men who used names—Commander, boss, princess—as currency. He had met more who would sell their souls cheap for a spotless ledger.

"You came alone" he said, as if that might matter.

"Do you think I came here alone" the man asked, and with that a shadow shifted in the doorway. The old man saw the second silhouette, the hint of another figure, the quiet confidence of numbers behind the single gun.

He tried for sarcasm, but it came out thin. "I am not the broker anymore," he repeated. "Why should I go anywhere with—"

"Because you and I both know what happens when invitations come with wrists that are not clean," the man cut in. His tone had no malice; it had only the logic of machinery. "You answer Ray. You talk. You come back. If I go back with something useful, you take a two-way trip."

The old man’s jaw worked. He thought of embargoed names and lost friends, of paper trails that had become barbed wire, of the taste of too many goodbyes. He had lived by negotiation and by silence both. The black jacket in front of him simplified the choice in a way only violence can.

The old man’s knees seemed to fold for a second before he found a steadier posture. He moved his hand toward the lamp, pressed a small brass button under the shade—an old habit, the ritual of a man who still liked order.

"All right," he said finally. The word was thin, but it carried something heavier under it: compliance, or the weary calculus of survival.

Star Harbor

It was already night, and the lights of Star Harbor reflected across the glass panels of the Sterling Enterprises tower like constellations scattered over water. The building’s lobby was quiet, the marble floor gleaming beneath the warm golden lights.

The private elevator opened with a soft chime, and Miles stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. His day had been long — meetings, reports, and phone calls — but as he walked through the lobby, his steps slowed.

A familiar voice caught his attention.

"Do the chairman remember me at all," the voice teased lightly.

Miles turned, and there she was — Celina Wraithbourne, her posture graceful as ever, her faint perfume carried by the air-conditioning.

"Celina?" he said, a faint smile tugging his lips. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Celina raised an eyebrow. "Did you forget I rent one of the floors of this building?"

Miles gave a low chuckle. "Ah, right. So, you’re here for work?"

Celina tilted her head, pretending to be offended. "Why? Are you disappointed I didn’t come here for you?"

Miles laughed softly. "Nothing like that."

"What’s there to laugh about, then?" she asked, folding her arms with mock seriousness.

"Nothing," he said again, still smiling. "How are you though?"

Celina’s tone softened. "I’m good. Just... busy. The business keeps me running. Dad rarely goes to the office now — he spends most of his time hanging out with his old friends. Sometimes I can’t even tell if he’s from the second generation or the third anymore."

Miles chuckled. "Good for Uncle. He’s worked hard all his life. Let him retire peacefully."

Celina smiled faintly, a warm glimmer in her eyes. "You’re right. He deserves it." She adjusted her bag, then looked back at him. "Anyway, I was planning a Sunday hangout with Becky and Rose. Would you like to join?"

Miles leaned slightly on the counter nearby. "Where are you going?"

"I was planning for ice skating," Celina replied, "but the Subzero Center is fully booked. Becky said she’d think of something else."

Miles considered for a moment. "If it’s booked, I can share the rink with you."

Celina blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I have a reservation in the private rink there," Miles said casually. "I often take Hope and Asher."

"Really?" Celina looked surprised. "The whole rink? For yourself?"

Miles nodded. "It’s not the regular size — smaller, private, good for family skating."

Celina’s lips curved into a grin. "Can we come too?"

"Of course," Miles said, smiling back.

"Well then," Celina clasped her hands together, "it’s settled. I’m really excited to meet the two cuties again."

Miles chuckled. "You’ll need energy — Hope might challenge you to a race."

Celina smirked. "Challenge accepted." She turned toward the exit, the click of her heels echoing faintly. "See you on Sunday then."

"See you," Miles replied.

They walked together toward the main doors. Outside, the evening breeze carried the scent of sea salt from the harbor. A sleek black car pulled up near the entrance.

The driver stepped out — Finn, one of Sterling Security agents. He opened the door for Celina, bowing slightly.

"Good evening, boss," Finn greeted Miles respectfully.

"Hey, Finn," Miles said with a knowing smile. "I heard you deserve a raise."

Finn gave a faint laugh. "The facilities you’ve given me are more than enough, sir."

"Still," Miles said, "you’ve earned it. Have a safe ride."

Finn nodded. "Thank you, boss." He returned to the driver’s seat.

Celina leaned out of the open window and waved. "Goodnight, Miles."

Miles returned the wave with a smile. "Goodnight, Celina."

The car pulled away smoothly, disappearing into the flow of traffic.

Miles watched it leave for a moment, then turned toward his own vehicle parked nearby.

He drove through the quiet streets of Star Harbor, city lights washing over the windshield like waves. Midway home, he slowed near The Bakery, the same small shop that had once been empty.

Now, it was full. Warm light spilled from the windows, laughter floated out, and people filled every seat inside. The woman behind the counter was smiling wider than ever.

Miles watched for a few seconds, a small, satisfied smile forming on his face.

Then he pressed the accelerator gently and drove off toward Pearl Villa, where the lights of home waited for him under the calm night sky.