Page 45 of Obliterated
We move to a patch of the wall where the light doesn’t reach and scale down easily, skipping the main entrance. The Den’s wooden doors are wide, guarded by men too bored to realize they’re nothing but decoration. We cut away from them, sliding into the shadows along the side wall, under a line of palm trees, our boots quiet on the stone.
At the north corner, the emergency stairs go up and up, tucked between the wall and the building. We climb quickly, practiced, the muffled sounds of music, laughter, and moans from inside following us up.
The lock on the fifth-floor door to Joyeus’ domain is a fucking joke; Tass picks it easily enough while I watch her back like promised. Inside there’s nothing but silence. Good.
The hallway is bright. Carpets thicker than anything I’ve ever seen, imported wood paneling, mirrors, paintings in gold leaf, plants everywhere. A chandelier hangs overhead, crystalscatching every flicker of light. Everything is over the top, dripping decadence.
Tass and I share a look. This isn’t just luxury. It’s obscene. Nobody on this island has this. Nobody but Joyeus.
The whole top floor is hers, carved out as a kingdom while the rest of the city rots.
We move quietly, shadows in a place drowning in light, the carpet swallowing our steps as we head for the lone door at the end of the short hall. Tass crouches for another lock—
Behind us, a door clicks open.
Shit.
We melt into the corner, pressed behind a potted palm. Tass’s shoulder brushes mine as we hunch, her breath steady while my hand closes around the hilt at my hip.
A man steps out. Broad frame. Swagger in his stride. My gut twists when recognition slams into me—the rotten bastard from the bar. The one who went after Kieran.
I want to end him right here, right now. The beast inside me slams against its cage, but Tass grips my knee and squeezes, a sharp warning.
The guy stretches, rolls his neck, and for a sick second I think he’ll glance back and catch us. He’s too close. If he sees us—
But he doesn’t. He rakes a hand through greasy hair, mutters something under his breath, and staggers toward the elevator at the far end, vanishing inside.
A click on my left tells me Tass already picked the lock.
We go in.
We already know Joyeus is out, parading through the northern villages, collecting her cut and pretending she’s some kind of savior. Which makes now the only chance we’ll get.
Her chambers drip with excess. Rugs thick enough to drown in, carved furniture polished to a shine, shelves stacked with liquor so old the labels have peeled away.
Tass drags her hand along a velvet chair and points to something on a cabinet, muttering: “what the fuck is that?”
I glance over to the white electronic device. I’ve seen it before. It’s an old game computer, right next to her television set. It’s humming faintly, lights intact, like they made it yesterday. Nobody has that. Not here. Not anywhere.
Once this shit is done, I’m stealingthatfor Kieran.
We move deeper. Her bedroom reeks of perfume and silk, sheets trimmed with lace, jewels scattered across a vanity like they mean nothing. Tass lifts a necklace, scoffs, and drops it back. Everything about this place screams untouchable wealth.
Her office is the hardest to crack. Heavy oak door, reinforced lock, not the flimsy kind used anywhere else on the island. It takes both of us working in silence until the mechanism finally clicks. We slip inside, careful to set the latch back, leaving no trace.
And that’s when we see it.
Tucked behind a stack of sealed envelopes sits the machine. Compact, heavy, steel plates and a hand crank. Letters still faintly pressed into its dye, ghosts of names and numbers stamped again and again.
A tag press.
A dog tag embosser.
The kind used to punch identities into metal, like they do at the registration office. Where the only press on this island gets locked away every night.
Tass and I lock eyes. My gut twists. Only Watchers and clerks are allowed near that thing. But Joyeus has her own.
We fan out, careful to leave no fingerprints, no trace. Tass flips through ledgers, frowning at the neat columns of names. I dig through drawers and find scraps of tags, some stamped, some blank, some with names I don’t recognize. People who might not even exist.
