The address led to a private club in West Hollywood.

In Los Angeles, that usually meant one of two things—celebrities going there to cheat, or rich men going there to commit crimes behind soundproof walls. Sometimes both.

Naomi pulled her hood lower as Elias parked across the street.

Neon lights bled across wet pavement. Luxury cars lined the curb. A group of influencers stumbled out laughing too loudly—cocaine confidence, the kind Naomi recognized instantly.

“This place looks sketchy as fuck,” she muttered.

“That’s because it is,” Elias said, killing the engine.

“You sure you want to do this?”

No.

Absolutely not.

But Damien’s words kept looping in her head.

You should’ve kept your mouth shut.

Naomi swallowed.

“Let’s go.”

Inside, the club smelled like expensive perfume, sweat, alcohol, and bad decisions.

The lighting was deliberately low—privacy designed for powerful people.

Music hit hard enough to vibrate through Naomi’s ribs.

Girls in designer dresses leaned against older men wearing wedding rings. A famous actor slipped upstairs with someone who definitely wasn’t his wife.

Nobody reacted. Nobody cared.

Hollywood morality didn’t exist after midnight.

Naomi’s chest tightened.

A flash hit her.

Room 814.

A girl in a red dress crying.

Damien grabbing her arm.

Naomi shouting:

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

The memory snapped away.

She stumbled slightly.

Elias caught her elbow.

“Hey.”

“I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that while looking like you’re about to collapse.”

Fair.

A bartender approached.

His expression shifted immediately when he recognized her.

Curiosity.

Then suspicion.

News traveled fast.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Naomi slid her phone across the counter.

The address message.

The bartender’s face drained.

“Where did you get this?”

“Someone sent it to me.”

He glanced around nervously, then leaned in.

“You need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because people here know Damien.”

Naomi’s pulse spiked.

“What kind of people?”

A pause.

Then quieter:

“The kind who make problems disappear.”

Cold slid down her spine.

Before she could respond, shouting broke out near the back hallway.

A drunk man had grabbed a young waitress by the wrist.

Hard.

She looked terrified.

Nobody moved.

Nobody interfered.

Naomi snapped instantly.

“Hey!”

The man turned, irritated.

“Mind your fucking business.”

“You’re hurting her.”

“And?”

Elias stepped forward, calm but sharp.

“Let her go.”

The man laughed—then stopped when he saw Elias’ expression.

He released her.

The waitress ran.

No applause. No reaction.

Just silence returning like nothing had happened.

Naomi stood frozen.

Something inside her turned.

Another flash.

Damien.

The crying girl.

Blood.

Her breathing broke.

Elias watched her carefully.

Then, quietly:

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen something like that, is it?”

Naomi didn’t answer.

Because for the first time, she realized—

Room 814 might not have been an isolated incident.

Maybe it was a pattern.

And maybe everyone around Damien had learned how to look away.