Chapter 89: Slipping Through

Jax palmed the stolen keycard and swiped it against the reader. The lock clicked with a mechanical thunk, and he slipped into the staff locker room.

The air inside was stale, heavy with the scent of cheap detergent and exhaustion. A few employees slumped on benches, heads in hands, radiating the kind of bone-deep fatigue that came from twelve-hour shifts and abusive managers. They didn’t even look up as Jax walked past.

He moved deeper into the rows of metal lockers until he found a deserted aisle. He needed a disguise, and fast.

Checking his six, Jax wedged a tool into the seam of the nearest locker and popped the latch.

A wave of biological warfare hit him instantly.

“Jesus,” Jax muttered, recoiling. The locker reeked of fermented sweat and foot fungus so potent it made his eyes water. “That is… impressive.”

He slammed the door shut, holding his breath, and moved to the next one.

Click.

This one was cleaner. Inside hung a standard-issue waiter’s uniform. Jax stripped off his suit jacket and pulled the uniform on. It was a tight fit across the shoulders, but it would do.

He buttoned it up, grabbed a staff cap to shadow his face, and exited the locker room, blending into the flow of workers heading for the service elevators.

He stepped into an open car, keeping his head down and his posture slumped, the picture of a tired employee.

The doors began to slide shut.

Suddenly, a hand—pale, manicured, and delicate—shot through the gap. The sensors triggered, and the doors bounced back open.

“Hold it, please.”

Jax froze. He knew that voice.

Hazel, the fierce auctioneer with the doll-like face, stepped into the elevator.

Jax immediately angled his body away, pulling the brim of his cap lower. Of all the elevators in all the gin joints…

The car was small. Besides Jax and Hazel, there were three other waiters. Hazel ignored them all, pressing the button for the ninth floor with an air of icy detachment. The waiters exchanged envious glances, clearly starstruck by the famous “Ice Beauty.”

The elevator began its smooth ascent. A cool breeze cycled through the vents, but Jax felt sweat prickling on his neck.

“Hey, buddy.”

Jax flinched. One of the waiters next to him nudged his arm.

“Which floor you heading to? Need me to press it?”

Jax cursed internally. The three waiters were staring at him now, their curiosity piqued by the silent stranger.

“Ninth,” Jax grunted, keeping his voice low and rough.

The waiters blinked. Hazel turned her head, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied the back of Jax’s uniformed figure. She tilted her head slightly, a flicker of recognition sparking in her gaze.

“Ninth?” the waiter asked, frowning. “Bro, you’re wearing a Seventh Floor uniform. If the supervisor catches you up there in that, he’s going to skin you alive. You better go back and change.”

Jax’s stomach dropped. Different uniforms for different floors? You have to be kidding me.

He stood there, trapped. If he spoke, he risked exposure. If he didn’t, they’d get suspicious.

“Damn it,” he thought, muscles tensing for a fight.

Just as the silence stretched to the breaking point, a cool voice cut through the tension.

“It’s fine. He’s with me.”

Hazel spoke without looking at the waiters, her tone brooking no argument. “Don’t worry about it.”

The three waiters snapped to attention, eyes widening. They looked from Hazel to Jax, their confusion morphing into intense jealousy. To be personally escorted by the Ice Beauty? Who was this guy?

Ding. Fifth Floor.

The doors opened. The three waiters shuffled out, casting longing glances back at Hazel. The doors slid shut, leaving Jax and Hazel alone in the rising steel box.

Jax stared at a promotional poster for “Synthetic Wine” on the wall, refusing to turn around.

“So,” Hazel said, her voice dripping with amusement. “Are you going to explain, or should I call security?”

Jax cleared his throat. “Miss, I think you have the wrong person. Do I know you?”

Hazel moved with the speed of a striking viper. She reached out and snatched the cap off his head.

Jax turned, his cover blown.

“Hah! I knew it,” Hazel said, spinning the cap on her finger. “The ‘big spender’ from the lobby. I felt something was off about you. Speak. What are you doing sneaking around?”

Jax sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I told you downstairs. I’m looking for someone.”

“Looking for someone?” Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Elena.”

Hazel stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“And how, exactly, did you know she was on the ninth floor?”

Jax hesitated. “Uh… telepathy?”

Hazel stared at him for a second, then snorted, a genuine laugh breaking through her icy facade. “You’re funny. You know that? You’re also suicidal. Do you have any idea whose territory you’re invading?”

“I’m guessing someone important.”

“The Chief of this Lounge isn’t just ‘important,'” Hazel said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s a warlord with connections that span the entire Middle District. If security catches you, they won’t just throw you out. You’ll rot in a private dungeon.”

She looked at him with big, shimmering eyes, waiting for him to panic, to beg for mercy.

Jax just shrugged. “Good thing I have you, then.”

Hazel blinked, taken aback by his audacity.

“You’re the head auctioneer,” Jax continued, pressing his advantage. “You run the show up there. Help me find Elena. I promise, the reward will be worth the risk.”

Hazel bit her lip, calculating. She glanced at the floor indicator. 8… 9.

“We’re here,” she said abruptly. “Listen to me. From this moment on, you are my personal assistant. You carry my bags, you keep your mouth shut, and you do exactly what I say. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.”

Ding.

The doors opened to a lavish hallway guarded by two hulking enforcers in tactical gear.

“Miss Hazel,” they grunted, straightening up.

“This is my new assistant,” Hazel announced, breezing past them. “Get him a proper uniform. Now.”

The guards nodded, not daring to question her. One of them gestured to Jax. “Follow me.”

Jax followed, feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse, but he kept his face impassive. They led him to a supply closet.

“Here,” the guard said, tossing a grey uniform at him. “Size XXXL. You’re lucky, pal. I don’t know how you managed to land a gig with the Ice Beauty, but try not to screw it up.”

The guard winked lewdly.

Jax forced a dry laugh. “Pure luck, I guess.”

He swapped the tight waiter’s outfit for the grey assistant’s uniform. It fit better—loose enough to hide a weapon if he had one.

“Good luck, brother,” the guard said, waving him off.

Jax hurried to catch up with Hazel.

The ninth floor was a labyrinth. Corridors twisted and turned, designed to confuse intruders and impress guests. After five minutes, Jax was fairly certain he couldn’t retrace his steps without a map.

Finally, they stopped before a set of massive, gilded double doors.

Hazel turned to him, her expression severe. “Remember. You are my assistant. You exist to hold things. Do not speak unless spoken to. The people inside are the heavy hitters of the Middle District—patriarchs, warlords, tycoons. Offend them, and even I can’t save you.”

“Understood,” Jax said. “I’m a mute moving company.”

“Good.”

She pushed the doors open.

Jax stepped through the red velvet curtains and nearly went blind.

The auction hall wasn’t just luxurious; it was an assault on the senses. The floor was paved with tiles that looked like solid gold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, refracting light into a dazzling, disorienting prism. It was a display of wealth so grotesque it felt almost violent in the context of the apocalypse.

Hazel pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from her clutch and shoved them into his chest. “Put these on. The lighting is designed to dazzle the buyers.”

Jax slid them on. The glare softened to a manageable shimmer.

“After the auction,” Jax whispered, leaning in close, “can you ask around about Elena?”

“Depends on your performance,” Hazel murmured, walking toward the backstage area.

Behind the stage, the atmosphere was chaotic. Makeup artists, stagehands, and security bustled about.

“Miss Hazel!”

A man with a high-pitched voice stormed over. He was dressed in a suit that was too tight, his gestures flamboyant and frantic.

“Where have you been?” he screeched, extending a pinky finger in a delicate, accusing point. “Do you have any idea what time it is? The auction is about to start!”

“I don’t need a countdown,” Hazel said coldly, ignoring his theatrics. “Give me the manifest. I need to review the lots.”

The man huffed, handing over a tablet with a dramatic flourish of his wrist. “Miss Hazel, if you keep pulling stunts like this, the Chief is going to have your head!”

“Let him try,” she muttered.

The man’s eyes finally landed on Jax, who was standing stoically behind her in his grey uniform and sunglasses.

“And who is this… giant?” the man asked, wrinkling his nose.

Hazel didn’t even look up from the tablet. She flipped open a box of dried nuts on the makeup table and popped one into her mouth.

“My assistant,” she said. She pointed a manicured finger at the lead makeup artist. “You. Fix his hair. He looks like he just rolled out of a dumpster.”