Chad Stern had always believed he could talk, or party, his way out of anything. Tonight, that illusion cracked like glass.
Chrono's promise still echoed in his ears: Five minutes, Chad. That's all you've got before the Black Hounds arrive.Chrono never bluffed, never padded the truth, never gave more time than he said. The moment the words left the fixer's mouth, Chad had understood there would be no miracle exit.
Five minutes shrank to four, then three. Now, every second felt like a hammer blow. The private K-TV suite, its velvet couches littered with empty soju bottles and glitter-dusted champagne flutes, suddenly seemed airless, claustrophobic, a glittering cage with neon-pink bars. There was literally nowhere to run. Chad had tried once already, sprinting through back alleys until his lungs burned. The Black Hounds found him in an hour.
He hadn't even been able to keep quiet long enough to board a train out of the city.
