Chapter 4 - The Backstage Trap
The main auditorium of the conservatory was a vast, dark cavern of velvet and gold leaf. The stage was brightly illuminated, a single Steinway grand piano sitting in the center like a sleeping beast.
Miles didn't take his seat.
The moment Julian walked down the aisle to join his own family in the front row, Miles turned and slipped through a set of heavy fire doors leading to the building’s administrative wing.
His architectural training had taught him how to read a building’s layout in seconds. He knew that a structure of this age would have a service basement—a labyrinth of pipes, heating ducts, and old storage rooms that ran directly beneath the stage and the dressing rooms.
He descended the concrete stairs, the sound of his own leather shoes echoing off the damp, painted walls. The air down here smelled of dust, old coal, and ozone.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the low, hurried sound of voices coming from a small, dimly lit utility room near the main electrical breakers.
Miles paused, his back pressed against the cold brick wall, his breath held tight in his chest.
"...can't do it today, Julian," a voice whispered. It was Arthur Vance, the driver. His usual warm, grandfatherly tone was gone, replaced by a frantic, high-pitched panic. "The father is suspicious. I saw him looking at me in the rearview mirror on the way over. He’s not stupid."
"He doesn't know anything," Julian’s voice snapped back, sharp and venomous. "Miles is an architect. He spends his days looking at blueprints, not security feeds. We’ve been running this feed through the conservatory's private server for six months, Arthur. The buyers are waiting for the live performance stream. If the camera in her dressing room isn't active before she steps on stage, we lose the entire deposit."
Miles’s vision blurred with a sudden, violent rush of blood.
They weren't just watching his daughter.
They were streaming her. They were selling access to his innocent, eight-year-old child to a network of monsters, using the conservatory’s high-speed, private servers as their digital shield.
"And Eleanor?" Arthur asked, his voice trembling. "Does she have the key to the dressing room lock?"
"She’s handling it right now," Julian said, his boots clicking against the concrete as he paced the small room. "She’ll keep the girl isolated until the performance. Once the stream is live, we shut down the server, wipe the drives, and Miles will think it was just a random glitch if he ever finds the files."
Miles didn't wait to hear another word.
He reached into his pocket, his hand wrapping around the heavy brass handle of his heavy tactical pen—a tool he used for sketching drafts, but one that was solid enough to break glass.
He stepped around the corner, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
Arthur Vance saw him first. The old driver’s eyes widened in terror, his mouth opening to scream, but Miles was already moving.
With a speed born of pure, primal adrenaline, Miles closed the distance between them. He drove his elbow into Arthur’s jaw, the force of the blow sending the older man crashing backward into a stack of metal folding chairs. The chairs collapsed in a deafening clatter of steel, Arthur’s body going limp as his head struck the concrete floor.
Julian spun around, his hand reaching for his jacket pocket, but Miles was faster.
He grabbed Julian by his silk tie, ripping him forward and slamming him face-first against the heavy steel utility door. The sound of Julian’s nose breaking was a wet, satisfying crunch.
Julian groaned, his knees buckling, but Miles didn't let him fall. He pinned him against the metal, his forearm pressed hard against Julian's throat, cutting off his air.
"Miles..." Julian gasped, blood pouring from his nose, staining his pristine white shirt and grey suit jacket. "Miles... please... it’s not what you think..."
"Where is the server, Julian?" Miles whispered, his voice incredibly quiet, his eyes inches from his former friend’s face. "Tell me where the server is, or I swear to God, I will use this pen to carve that scar right out of your wrist."
Julian looked into Miles's eyes and saw nothing but death. He pointed a trembling, blood-stained finger toward a small, locked closet in the corner of the utility room.
"The key..." Julian choked out. "The key is in Eleanor’s purse. She... she has the master control."
Miles didn't hesitate. He drove his fist into Julian’s temple, the blow knocking the younger man unconscious before he could even register the pain.
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Miles stood over the two fallen men, his chest heaving, his hands covered in Julian's blood. He reached down, grabbed Julian's phone and wallet, and took the silver key-card from Arthur’s pocket.
He had the evidence. Now, he had to stop the show.
