Wait For You - 'Look After You' Sequel - A Michael Jackson Fanfiction

Chapter 4

Michael
-

The Velvet Room never truly slept.

Red light spilled across the marble floors.

Upstairs, the glass in my office vibrated faintly with bass from the floor below.

Most nights, this was peace.
At least, the kind of peace I understood.

I sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled to my elbows, cigarette burning slow between my fingers as I watched the club move beneath me.

Bodies swayed. Money changed hands. Men I'd broken bread with were now breaking rules somewhere in the corner, pretending I didn't notice.

They all knew the truth, I noticed everything.

A knock broke the rhythm. One sharp tap.

"Come in," I said, voice low.

Ramon pushed through the door. He didn't speak until he shut the door behind him.

That told me it mattered.

"There's a car outside," he said. "Been there a while."

"How long's 'a while'?"

"Two hours. Maybe more. No one's gotten out since the doors closed."

I flicked ash into the tray, kept my tone flat. "Run the plates?"

He nodded. "We did. Nothing. Blank registration. Fake numbers. It looks clean."

Clean.

In our world, clean didn't mean safe, it meant scrubbed and intentional.

"Law?" I asked.

"Doubt it," he said. "It's too still. No lights, no movement. Just... watching."

I leaned back in the chair, studying him. "What's your read?"

Ramon hesitated. "Feels like someone casing the place. It's probably not random."

I let the silence stretch until he shifted his weight, uneasy. "Alright," I said finally. "Leave it for now. Keep eyes on it. If it moves, I want to know where."

He frowned. "You don't want me to handle it?"

"No," I said simply. "If you go out there, they'll know we noticed. Let them think I haven't."

He nodded, gave a short "Yes, boss," and left.

When the door shut, the quiet came back. But it wasn't peaceful anymore.

I stood, crossed to the window. The glass reflected my face first, tired eyes, faint scars, a man who didn't sleep much, before the street below sharpened into focus.

There it was.
A black Cadillac.
Parked across the road like it belonged there.

The streetlights washed it in gold, but the tint on the windows stayed dark. Whoever was inside, they were patient.

That was the part that bothered me.

I'd learned a long time ago that patience was never harmless.

I lit another cigarette. The flame caught slow, steady. Smoke filled the space between me and the glass as I watched.

Someone once told me paranoia was a symptom of guilt.

Maybe.

Or maybe paranoia was just the price of surviving too many nights like this.

After a few minutes, I turned away. The office suddenly felt smaller.

I poured myself a drink, bourbon biting down my throat as the music played that old, slow melody I'd once danced to in another life.