By the time they reached the club again, the sun had risen well past the rooftops, casting gray streaks through the morning sky. The place was quieter now, its wild energy reduced to low thudding music, a couple of hungover patrons still loitering near the entrance, and a bouncer who barely glanced at them when they walked in.
Augustin adjusted the collar of his black coat, looking every inch the calculating gentleman. Ethan walked ahead with a sharp, purposeful stride, his black eyes narrowed, muscles tensed under his dark turtleneck. Adrian walked beside them, scanning every inch of the club's layout as if memorizing it—his silver eyes soft, but focused.
Wryn was not there.
The VIP booth where he had made a drunken scene the night before was empty, a single glass still bearing the lipstick smear of some unknown woman. Ethan motioned toward the bar, where a gruff bartender with sleeve tattoos and a graying beard was wiping down glasses.
