MTLNOVEL Chapter 5: The Cold Watcher
The party was just another chore in Damien Quinn's calendar—unavoidable, excessive, and full of people pretending to matter. It was held on the private rooftop of the Astrelle Hotel, a lush spectacle for Nadia Vellor's twenty-fourth birthday. Her perfume company was climbing, and her guest list was tailored to include names with weight. Damien's name was one of them.
He arrived late, wrapped in charcoal wool and disinterest, his expression unreadable as always. Cameras snapped, greetings were exchanged, and drinks were offered—none of which slowed his pace. He nodded to investors, shook hands with board members, and offered polite indifference to socialites who tried to flirt with sharp smiles and shallow compliments.
The only thing that caught his attention—briefly—was her.
Rose Laurier.
He recognized her from old news cycles: fashion, scandals, tantrums, and lately, silence. But this version of her didn't seem to match the memory.
She sat on the edge of the crowd like a figure misplaced. Alone but not lonely. Dressed perfectly, of course. But she wasn't basking in the attention. Her eyes scanned, not for cameras but... for exits? For threats?
Something about her posture felt off.
Damien watched from across the terrace as Anthony Whitmore strolled in with his usual performative charm. The heir to a pharmaceutical fortune. Cunning, entitled, and entirely too comfortable playing with power.
His path brought him near Rose.
Damien noticed her grip the stem of her champagne glass tighter. Just for a second. Barely a breath's length.
Interesting.
He turned away.
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Back at the penthouse later that night, the sky above the city was ink-black and pulsing with lights. Damien sat in his study—his sanctuary. The walls were lined with rare books and digital artifacts from a dozen defunct surveillance programs. On the screen in front of him, the digital trace danced.
He hadn't planned to check in on the backend tonight, but the system pinged an irregularity.
An old subdomain from Quinn Corp's legacy archives had been touched. Not breached—tickled.
It was the second time in a week.
He stared at the sequence, tracing it backward. The intruder hadn't entered deeply, hadn't taken anything, hadn't broken protocol. Instead, they hovered—testing, teasing.
Curious.
He called up the logs. The code was elegant, custom-built. Nothing borrowed. No bot scripts. Just clean, raw architecture with the kind of intentional misdirection only someone brilliant would bother to craft.
The same digital fingerprints from the first incident. Whoever it was, they were skilled. More than skilled. Artful.
And bold.
He ran a traceroute triangulation. As expected, scrambled. Relayed through proxies across three continents. But one signature hinted at New York. Just a flicker. Could be false, could be bait.
Could be real.
Damien sat forward.
And typed.
Who are you?
He didn't wait, fingers tapping the keys.
We should talk. I might need your services.
The reply came quicker than expected.
Maybe. But you'll have to ask nicely.
A huff of amusement left his mouth. Not quite a laugh. But close.
They were playing.
Not hiding in fear. Engaging.
He didn't know who they were. Gender, age, motive—all unknown. But their code carried confidence. Precision. A poetic kind of control.
And then silence.
He didn't need confirmation. Not yet.
What mattered was that someone had danced along the edges of his digital fortress and left a trace behind, just enough to be noticed.
He leaned back in his chair, the skyline reflected in the glass behind him.
He didn't believe in coincidences.
And whoever this shadow was...
they had his attention now.