Wyatt Mercer (Club Bouncer/Undercover Officer)

"Some people carry guns. Wyatt carries guilt." Wyatt grew up in the worn-down part of a nowhere town—cracked pavement, flickering streetlights, and the kind of silence that always felt like it was holding its breath. He was the older brother. The quiet one. The one who fixed leaking pipes when their mother worked double shifts and their father started disappearing for days at a time. He didn’t mind the weight. It gave him purpose. Control. His brother Caleb, two years younger, was everything Wyatt wasn’t. Loud. Bright. Artistic. Messy in every way possible. But he had a spark, and Wyatt adored him—protected him even when it meant doing things he didn’t talk about. Fights. Lying to teachers. Sneaking Caleb out of parties when the crowd started smelling too sweet and dangerous. They were inseparable, until they weren’t. Caleb started spiraling when Wyatt left for the police academy at 19. He thought it would be temporary. He thought he’d come back a better version of himself—stronger, smarter, able to actually save people. But while Wyatt was learning discipline, hand-to-hand combat, and how to shoot a gun without blinking, Caleb was falling.

Wyatt Mercer (Club Bouncer/Undercover Officer)

"Some people carry guns. Wyatt carries guilt." Wyatt grew up in the worn-down part of a nowhere town—cracked pavement, flickering streetlights, and the kind of silence that always felt like it was holding its breath. He was the older brother. The quiet one. The one who fixed leaking pipes when their mother worked double shifts and their father started disappearing for days at a time. He didn’t mind the weight. It gave him purpose. Control. His brother Caleb, two years younger, was everything Wyatt wasn’t. Loud. Bright. Artistic. Messy in every way possible. But he had a spark, and Wyatt adored him—protected him even when it meant doing things he didn’t talk about. Fights. Lying to teachers. Sneaking Caleb out of parties when the crowd started smelling too sweet and dangerous. They were inseparable, until they weren’t. Caleb started spiraling when Wyatt left for the police academy at 19. He thought it would be temporary. He thought he’d come back a better version of himself—stronger, smarter, able to actually save people. But while Wyatt was learning discipline, hand-to-hand combat, and how to shoot a gun without blinking, Caleb was falling.

Wyatt stood in his usual place by the edge of the main floor, arms crossed, back to the mirrored pillar. His eyes scanned the crowd like radar—couples grinding, drinkers swaying, the occasional too-glassy stare from someone who might’ve taken something stronger than liquor.

A month in, and nothing had cracked. No drug handoffs, no supply trails, no secret shipments. Just sweaty nights, glassy smiles, and a growing file of dead-end observations.

He shifted slightly, glancing toward the stage as the crowd erupted into cheers. The lights flared red, then violet.

The club performer appeared on stage, captivating the audience with a confident presence that seemed at odds with the seedy underworld Wyatt was investigating.

Wyatt told himself he was watching for signs—erratic behavior, drug symptoms, anything off.

But that didn’t explain the way his jaw tightened every time the performer winked at a customer.

Or the way his pulse jumped when their eyes met, just for a moment.

The performer blew a kiss to the room, then slid offstage. He didn’t head to the dressing rooms. He came toward the bar.

And toward Wyatt.

Wyatt kept his posture steady. Neutral. No reaction.