Beneath The Surface - DNF

Chapter 7

Dream stormed into his house, slamming the door behind him with a force that echoed through the empty space. His jacket was tossed carelessly onto the couch, his usually composed demeanor cracking under the weight of frustration. The night had been another dead end—another wild goose chase that led him to George's house only to find nothing of substance. It was as if George was always one step ahead, always ready to slip through his fingers just when Dream thought he had him cornered. Was the brunette really just a stripper?

Dream paced the room, his mind racing. George had become an obsession, an enigma that haunted his every thought. The way George seemed to enjoy toying with him, leading him on only to disappear at the last moment—it was maddening. Dream hated the way it made him feel so out of control, so powerless.

Finally, he stopped, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter, the cool surface doing little to calm the fire inside him. Dream ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing. The journey to George's house had been nothing but a waste of time, and he was no closer to unraveling the mystery that was
the brit.

As he began to undress, ready to surrender to the exhaustion that tugged at him, and take a shower, abthis phone buzzed on the nightstand. Dream frowned, picking it up and glancing at the caller ID. It was his boss. A late-night call from him usually meant trouble.

Dream hesitated for a moment before answering. "What is it?" he asked, his voice tight with irritation.

"Dream, I know it's late, but I have a mission for you," his boss's voice came through, calm and collected. "There's a ball tomorrow night—an event for the elite. You'll be attending undercover."

Dream's frustration deepened. "A ball? I'm not exactly in the mood for socializing."

"This isn't about socializing. There's a package of heroin that needs to be delivered to a few key players. It's a high-stakes operation, and we can't afford any mistakes. You're the best we have, Dream."

Dream sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. What else do I need to know?"

"There's a guest list with some familiar names," his boss continued, a note of caution in his voice. "One of them is George Davidson, the owner of the most popular strip club in Florida. I know you've requested his location and personal information recently and you have dealings with him, I don't know what's going on between the two of you but be careful. He's not one to be underestimated."

Dream's grip tightened on the phone, the mention of George sending a fresh wave of anger through him. Of course, George would be there. It seemed fate was determined to keep throwing them together. "Understood," Dream replied curtly before ending the call.

He dropped the phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, the exhaustion from the day seeping into his bones. Tomorrow was going to be another long night. One way or another, he'd find a way to deal with George, even if it meant playing along with whatever game he was up to.

The next day, Dream woke up early, the events of the previous night still weighing heavily on his mind. He dressed with precision, choosing an elegant black suit that fit his undercover persona while concealing the edge of danger that lurked beneath the surface. The ball was an event for the elite, and Dream knew how to blend in.

As he arrived at the grand estate where the ball was being held, Dream's eyes swept over the crowd, his gaze sharp and calculating. The ballroom was a vision of opulence—crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the elegantly dressed guests, and soft music filled the air. Dream moved through the room with practiced ease, his eyes searching for his targets while remaining alert for any sign of George.