Chapter 4: "The Aftermath of Confrontation" Julian POV

The holding room’s dead quiet, just the hum of the vents and my own breathing. I’m still cuffed, wrists sore from the metal, sitting on this hard chair that’s bolted to the floor. My head’s a mess after that scene in the security office—Victor’s smug face, that fake footage, Marcus just standing there, not saying a bloody word. I keep hearing his voice, weak and wobbly: “We’ll sort it, mate.” Sort it? He didn’t even fight for me. I stare at the grey wall, blank as my thoughts, and feel the sting of it all over again.

I’m out now, though. They didn’t press charges—not yet—just kicked me loose with a “don’t leave town” warning. The casino’s behind me, its neon glow fading as I wander the streets. It’s late, past four a.m., and Vegas is dimming down. The Strip’s still got its lights, but out here, it’s empty—dark alleys, flickering streetlamps, the odd drunk stumbling home. My boots scuff the pavement, and my breath puffs in the cool air. I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t want to go back to the flat, not with Marcus there, not after he looked at me like I might’ve done it.

My mind’s spinning, replaying everything. Claire’s smirk by the door keeps popping up, sharp and nasty. I can still see her, lurking while Victor showed Marcus that rigged tape. She didn’t say much, but her face said it all—pure glee, like she’d won something. Then her voice from last night cuts through, low and bitter: “Five grand for that Brit, while Ethan’s dying.” It’s stuck in my head, looping like a bad song. Ethan—who’s Ethan? Her brother, maybe? And that five grand—Marcus’s voucher. Is that what this is about? She thinks I took something from her? The thought makes my stomach twist, but it fits. She’s been off with Marcus since he snitched on her last year, and now this. It’s mad, but it’s her.

I turn down a side street, narrower, darker. The casino’s noise is gone, just the wind rattling a loose sign somewhere. My hands shove deeper into my jacket pockets, the voucher still crumpled in there. Five grand. Marcus gave it to me like it was nothing, said I was worth it. Three weeks ago, he kissed me, and I thought we’d cracked it—me and him, proper together. Now he’s doubting me, and I’m out here, lost in the bloody desert night.

A memory hits me hard—Claire’s face last shift, before all this kicked off. She’d been staring at me, eyes like knives, right after Marcus mentioned the voucher to Sam. I didn’t clock it then, but now it’s clear. She heard him, and something snapped. “Five grand for that Brit.” Her words bite at me, and I can’t shake them. Did she set me up over that? Plant those chips, fake that tape, just to get back at Marcus through me? My chest tightens, anger mixing with the hurt. If she did, she’s dragged Victor into it too. He’s got his own beef with Marcus—some old row about slots, from what I’ve heard. They’re a pair, those two, and I’m the one paying for it.

I stop in an alley, leaning against a brick wall. It’s deserted, just me and the shadows. The cold seeps through my jacket, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe. Marcus’s face flashes up—him in the office, staring at that screen, not meeting my eyes. “Julian wouldn’t… would he?” he’d said, like he wasn’t sure. After five years—five bloody years—he didn’t know me well enough to say no. That’s what’s killing me. Not the cuffs, not the job. Him.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, loud in the quiet. I fish it out, hands clumsy, and frown at the screen. No caller ID—just a blank number. I hesitate, thumb hovering, then answer. “Yeah?”

Static crackles first, then a voice comes through—low, distorted, like it’s been run through some cheap machine. “Some secrets are better left buried,” it says, slow and creepy. My skin goes cold, and I push off the wall, looking around. The alley’s empty, but I feel watched.

“Who’s this?” I snap, voice sharper than I mean. “What d’you want?”

The voice doesn’t flinch. “They have a way of resurfacing,” it goes on, ignoring me. “Like the past. Like Marcus’s past.” There’s a pause, and I hear breathing—slow, deliberate. My heart’s thudding now, loud in my ears.

“Marcus? What about him?” I say, gripping the phone tighter. “Who the hell are you?”

The line crackles again, and the voice drops lower. “Ask him about the debts. Ask him what he buried.” Then it cuts off—dead silence, just the beep of a dropped call. I stare at the screen, blank now, and my hand shakes. Debts? Marcus’s past? What’s that mean? He’s told me bits—gambling, years back, rough patches—but nothing big. Nothing buried. Or so I thought.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, breath coming fast. The alley feels tighter, darker, like it’s closing in. That voice—distorted, nameless—knew Marcus. Knew me. Was it Claire? Victor? Someone else? And what’s this about secrets resurfacing? My head’s spinning again, worse than before. Marcus’s doubt was bad enough, but now this—a hint of something deeper, something tied to him. A conspiracy, maybe, lurking behind the frame-up.

I start walking, fast, boots echoing off the walls. The call’s left me rattled, that final line stuck in my skull: “Ask him what he buried.” It’s cryptic, creepy, and it’s got me thinking there’s more to this mess than Claire’s grudge or Victor’s games. Marcus’s past—whatever he’s not told me—might be the key. And I’m stuck out here, alone, with no bloody clue what’s coming next.