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Finn sat in the plush interior of a limousine, peering at his reflection in a small compact mirror. Night had settled thick and quiet over London’s streets, broken only by passing headlights and the amber glow of streetlamps. The tinted windows of the limo gave everything outside a hazy, cinematic quality, but Finn’s focus remained firmly on his new disguise.

He adjusted the stylish rectangular glasses perched on his nose and surveyed the transformation. His hair, once a bright blond, had been dyed a glossy black, combed back to highlight a newly sprouted mustache—fake, but impressively realistic and courtesy of some folks at Mi6. He’d decided to go clean-shaven otherwise, preferring not to add a full beard to the ensemble. He couldn’t resist a small grin.

“I could get used to this look,” he murmured, snapping the compact mirror shut.

Across from him, Amelia Winters frowned. She sat with her back straight, tension radiating from her posture. “Well, I couldn’t,” she said with a wry note. Her hands worried the seam of her coat, betraying her nerves. “This whole plan is needlessly reckless.”

Finn lowered the mirror into his lap. He’d chosen a fitted, midnight-blue suit to complete the image of a well-heeled club patron—one who might effortlessly blend with the aristocratic crowd at The Monarch. “Relax,” he said, placing his free hand gently over hers. “We all agreed this was the best shot at an inside lead. I’ll be fine.”

She looked into his eyes—barely recognizable behind the dark hair and frames. “I just think it’s an unnecessary risk,” she said, voice pitched low. “We’ve got a serial murderer haunting the corridors of The Monarch Club. How do we know he won’t strike again tonight?”

At that, Rob cleared his throat from the seat next to Amelia. “I’d usually side with you, Winters,” he said, his tone gruff but resigned. “But I got a call from a certain someone high up in the chain. The official stance is that an inquiry into members’ activities, especially illegal gambling, will get bogged down in endless red tape. They’ll close ranks, bury us in legal challenges.”

Finn nodded. They had suspected as much—some of The Monarch’s members wielded power in nearly every corner of Britain’s elite. “If we go in guns blazing, we’ll be stuck in procedure for months,” he said. “And in that time, how many more might get killed? This is the fastest way to find out who’s behind these murders.”

Amelia exhaled, glancing at the polished black window where the city lights streaked by. “I know. It just feels like a hundred things could go wrong.”

Rob tapped the seat rest. “We’ll be nearby, as close as we can get without raising suspicion. With any luck, the manager Theodore Crawford and your insider persona can glean leads. We’re not sure who’s doing the actual killing—someone with a grudge, a gambling debt, who knows. But we can’t wait for another body to show up.”

Finn looked down at the black suit jacket he wore, double-checking the lines. For once, it was immaculately tailored—a far cry from the casual wardrobe he typically sported. “Anyone in the club know I’ll be there?” he asked, glancing at Rob. “Beyond the front desk staff, I mean.”

“Just Theodore,” Rob replied, taking a small battered notepad from his inside pocket. “He’s on board—promised to help as best he can. Realizes The Monarch’s reputation is at stake, wants this wrapped up quickly. But beyond him, it’s hush-hush. The fewer people who know your identity, the better.”

A small silence followed, broken only by the gentle hum of the limo’s engine. Then Amelia shifted, producing a tiny earpiece from her coat. “Here,” she said softly, pressing it into Finn’s palm. “It’s small enough that you can tuck it inside your right ear. If the building’s walls don’t block the signal entirely, you should be able to contact us.”

Finn took the device, examining it. “Thanks, Winters,” he said, carefully slotting it into place. “Now I can whisper sweet nothings to you in the middle of a card game.”

Her mouth twitched, attempting a smile, but the worry didn’t leave her eyes. “No bravado, Finn,” she warned. “If it gets hairy, you pull out.”

He squeezed her hand. “I will. Promise.” Then he sat back, fiddling with the earpiece to ensure it sat comfortably. “I’ve done covert ops before, but this is a bit fancier than I’m used to.”

Amelia forced a small laugh. “I’m still relieved you dropped that terrible cockney accent. The wealthy American tech entrepreneur angle is a better fit.”

Finn grinned, adopting his best pretentious timbre: “My dear Inspector, rest assured, I shall deploy only the most cultivated tones.” He paused, glancing from Amelia to Rob. “Wait, does that mean you’re fine with the posh American? Because my fallback is the stiff-lipped aristocrat, and we all know how that turned out in the elevator.”

Amelia let out a genuinely amused chuckle this time. “Just speak politely and keep the theatrics minimal. That’s all we ask.”

Rob cleared his throat, pulling a slim wallet from his jacket. “Speaking of theatrics, here’s your ID, Mr. Devlin Foster,” he said, handing it over. “And a credit card. But watch your spending, or we’ll have budgetary nightmares.”

Finn flipped open the wallet, scanning the forged driver’s license that bore his disguised face. “Devlin Foster, American investor and part-time thrill-seeker,” he mused, stuffing it carefully into his inner pocket. Then he noticed the thick wad of cash wrapped in an elastic band. “What the—” He counted a few notes. “Hundreds and fifties? There must be thousands of pounds here!”

Rob shrugged. “You’ll need capital if you’re going to mingle with the big fish. Gambles are never small at The Monarch, and membership runs with some serious wealth. We want you to blend in, not look like a tourist with ten quid in your pocket.”

Finn whistled softly, sliding the cash into his suit’s inside lining. “Next time, I should go undercover in Monte Carlo. This is insane money.”

“That money’s traceable,” Rob warned. “We’ll monitor every penny after the case is done. No exotic holidays on the Met’s dime.”

Finn placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’m wounded, Chief. My moral compass never wavers.”

Amelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide a small grin. “If you say so.”

Outside the tinted windows, the limo slowed. Finn felt the shift as they turned into a short drive leading to a grand facade. Through the haze of streetlights, he recognized the silhouette of The Monarch Club—its proud columns and carved stone lintel, glowing under discreet uplighting. The same building that had dominated their lives for days, the place where two men had already lost theirs.

The driver eased to a stop by the wide marble steps leading to the double doors. Finn tugged at his cuffs, straightened his lapels, and inhaled sharply. “Well,” he murmured, feeling his pulse quicken. “Here I go.”

Before Amelia could speak, he turned to her. She fixed him with a determined stare. He leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. It was brief but full of all the unspoken stakes between them—her worry, his resolve, and the trust that bound them.

“Be careful,” she whispered, breath warm against his cheek.

“Careful is my middle name,” he replied with forced confidence. He then opened the limo door, stepping out into the crisp evening air. Streetlamps glinted on the wet pavement, a thin drizzle still falling from the murky sky. The building’s facade loomed, crowned by that discreet sign reading The Monarch in ornate script.

The doorman responding to the arriving vehicle, stepping forward promptly with an umbrella. Finn brushed off the offer—didn’t want to appear too dependent—and strode up the steps. At the entrance, Theodore Crawford hovered, wringing his hands in that familiar display of nerves. He wore a dark suit and tie, his balding head shining under the overhead light, worry etched into the lines of his face.

“Devlin Foster,” Theodore greeted in a hushed tone, using Finn’s alias. He cast a quick glance behind Finn, perhaps searching for signs of Amelia or Rob, but the limo had already melted into the traffic.

“Good evening,” Finn said, carefully adopting a slightly more formal intonation than usual—enough to pass for a posh visitor, he hoped. “I trust all is prepared?”

Theodore forced a thin smile. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Foster. If someone suspects your intentions…”

“Relax, Teddy,” Finn said, clapping a friendly hand on the manager’s arm. “With your help, we’re about to achieve wonders.”

The manager winced at the nickname. "Teddy," indeed, might not be the best approach if they were trying to keep it quiet. But he nodded, letting out a small, resigned sigh. "Yes, well… I'll introduce you as a potential new member here for a trial visit. We'll see if the rumor mill takes hold."

Finn’s mustache twitched with a quick grin. “Perfect. I’ll act the part—wealthy, curious about the club, wanting to sample their famed card games.” He paused, letting a sudden realization weigh on him. “You’re sure none of the real members will ask for deeper verification?”

Theodore shook his head, leaning in so only Finn could hear. “The Monarch accepts new prospects often, especially those with references. I’ll say Lord Davenport recommended you—he’s conveniently traveling abroad. And none of the staff would dare publicly question my word. Just keep your guard up. If our killer is in these halls, you might draw their attention fast.”

Finn patted the man’s shoulder again in reassurance. “I’ll be cautious.”

Behind them, the heavy doors closed with a gentle thud, sealing Finn from the outside world and the watchful eyes of Amelia and Rob. He inhaled, letting the faint cologne of old leather and polished wood fill his senses. Somewhere deeper in the building, a clock chimed the hour in mellow notes.

He pasted on a confident smile and moved into the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor. In the back of his mind, he felt the comforting presence of the earpiece in his right ear. Just stay calm , he told himself. Play the part.

He smoothed a hand over his borrowed mustache, aware that each step carried him closer to the unknown. This was a dance on a razor’s edge—a murderer lurking somewhere amid aristocratic elegance, a staff powerless to speak, and a deep hush over The Monarch’s hidden corners. But if that hush could be shattered, if he could draw the killer’s hand into the light, it might just end the bloodshed. That conviction spurred him on, steel in his spine.

“Shall we, Mr. Foster?” Theodore murmured, indicating a corridor that led to the main lounge.

Finn nodded, letting the hush of The Monarch wrap around him. He grinned faintly, the expression hidden under his dark new mustache, and said softly: “Yes, Teddy. The Monarch awaits.”