We don't sleep at all.

That decision happens without being spoken as we got carried away with our impossible tasks. The bed stays untouched, the room lit by the low, artificial glow of lamps and laptop screens. Time starts to lose its shape as the night drags forward inch by inch.

We try to be methodical at first. Oscar lays the photos out on the desk, aligning their edges, studying them like they might confess if we stare long enough. He checks the backgrounds obsessively, zooms in our reflection for any details we might gave missed. I open my laptop and start pulling at threads that feel fragile as I touch them, anything that might leave a finger print. The images are clean in the most unsettling way, stripped of anything traceable as if they were meant to end their value the moment they reached us.

We move on with any possibility we can think of.

We retrace timeline, quietly at first but then out loud. Monaco replayed in fragments that makes my chest tighten the longer we stay there. We name every single person we know that has access to the building, which competitors are close by, who my neighbors are. Each answer branches into another question and none of them lead anywhere solid enough to hold onto.

Oscar is not in the title fight alone and there are several drivers would get the benefit if he dropped out from Mexico so we couldn't pinpoint exactly who has the highest possibility to send us those pictures. The motive is boarder, messier and harder to narrow because of that.

At some point, we're both on our feet, pacing opposite sides of the room. Circling the same absence of answers from different angles. Oscar checks the hallway camera access with the hotel but we don't get much in return. Meanwhile, I scroll through endless messages and saved pictures, footages to see if there's any leak we missed.

Hours pass like this, every lead collapses the moment we touch it. Whoever did this must have known we would do everything to trace them back and they planned for us to fail. I stop pretending I'm thinking clearly when I notice my thoughts start looping. The horrible thoughts sink its teeth in me and almost made me believe it was all my fault for showing off my love to my dearest rival.

Oscar notices the shift before I say anything. He always does.

He stops pacing and steps in front of me, blocking my path like I might disappear if he lets me keep moving. He pulls me in a long and warm hug.

"Don't", he says quietly, his feelings hidden behind that calm voice.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to break down right here, "I didn't say anything".

"You didn't have to. Loving you is not a mistake. I don't regret any of it."

I let myself trace the depth of his words and fall for it. Never have I ever seen Oscar this reckless, already chose what he wants and isn't interested in any kind of negotiation. Fear doesn't disappear magically because of his sweetness, it just turns into something more manageable, loses its grip on us.

By the time the sky outside starts to lighten, our room looks exactly as it did hours ago with photos on the desk, laptop opens, answers still absent. The only thing that's changed is us, worn down with eyes burning, the weight of what we're facing finally settling into something solid.

We've found nothing.

Which, led us to the same conclusion no one want to admit verbally – we can't handle this alone. Oscar is better than me at recognizing when a problem has outgrown us, he's got his phone in his hand like he's already decided what it's for.

"Guess calling Andea is my responsibility because I'm always in his favor. Zak is all yours, hope he loves his golden boy enough to not interrogate you the moment he picks up."

I nod, even though my chest tightens instantly at the though. Telling them means naming this relationship – which I already have the answer for myself ages ago, but it feels unfair for Oscar that my first "I love you" doesn't belong to only us privately.

Oscar dials his phone first. Andrea answers on the first ring. Oscar keeps his voice professional but I know him well enough to hear the tension under it, the way he chooses his words carefully without revealing too much. He asks for an urgent meeting in an hour.

While Oscar talks, I stare down at my phone, Zak's contact has already been pulled out. I don't know how to explain it properly or how to avoid messing it all up, but I know I have to make this call. And it'll be better if I could be as vague as possible, because who knows if our phone got monitored or not?

Zak answers with his usual brisk warmth, his tone light and positive. I don't waste time on pleasantries. I ask for a confidential meeting, just like what Oscar requested. When the call ends, Oscar and I stand there, hands in hands, the reality of what comes next slowly settling in. Once we walk into that meeting, this stops being something we manage quietly behind closed door.

Oscar threads his fingers through mine, squeezes my hand like a silent promise. Whatever this becomes, whatever it costs, we are in it together.