The staffer jerks for the service exit, but Dallas and Murderbone close the gap in the dim corridor. His shoulder hits the wall. The radio in his fist spits static, then a voice cuts through, sharp and impatient, asking for a status update on the package.

Murderbone plants himself in front of the door, low and still, a black-and-tan warning sign with teeth. The staffer’s eyes flick from the dog to Dallas, then back to the radio like it might save him.

The staffer flinches at the question, but the radio crackles again, louder now. A second burst of static makes it sound like someone is trying to home in on the signal from the hotel.

Dallas moves before the corridor can close around them, smashing the radio against the wall. Plastic snaps. The voice dies in a hiss. For a beat, the hallway goes quiet except for the staffer’s shaking breath and Murderbone’s steady growl. The lure is cut, and the line to the shadow organization goes dark.

Dallas drives the staffer flat to the wall, forearm across his chest, and the man’s cracked radio slips from his grip. The corridor tightens around the three of them, all warm spill light and hard shadows.

The answer lands with a cost, the staffer’s elbow raking Dallas’s injured thumb as he twists in panic. A fresh sting cuts through the hand that already took the seal cut.

Murderbone shifts to block the service exit harder, nails scratching tile, while the staffer swallows and stares past Dallas toward the beach lights.

His face goes pale as the corridor camera above them gives a tiny red blink. He has said enough to point Dallas at the drop, but not enough to make the trail safe.