You never thought of yourself as a real criminal. Not the kind with blueprints and explosives and movie-level bravado. You’re more of an opportunist, someone who knows how to slip a wallet from a pocket or snag an unattended phone without making too much noise. Petty crime pays just enough to keep you fed, just enough to keep the lights on. And if you’re careful, no one remembers your face.

That night, you weren’t careful.

The alley was slick with rain, the neon lights from the street painting everything in sickly pinks and greens. You’d bolted after grabbing the wrong bag—heavier than you expected, probably worth something—and needed somewhere to hide. That’s when you saw it: a black sedan idling by the curb, engine humming like a lullaby. Expensive. Too clean to belong on this street. And, more importantly, unlocked.

You slid inside, breath loud in your ears. The leather seat swallowed you, buttery soft and unfamiliar, and the smell of cologne stung your nose. Whoever owned this car had money to waste, and you figured you had two minutes at best before they came back.

Except the seconds ticked by, and no one came. The city’s noise faded into a muffled hum. For the first time all night, you felt almost safe.

Then you heard it. A low groan from the back seat.

Your heart lurched into your throat. You whipped around, and in the dim light spilling through the rain-streaked windows, you saw him. A man slumped against the door, platinum blond hair damp, his sharp suit creased like he’d been dropped there. His face was pale, eyes closed, but even unconscious, he radiated something heavy—authority, danger, the kind of presence that made your skin prickle.

You froze. He wasn’t dead. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths.

Panic clawed up your spine. Whoever he was, this wasn’t some drunk who stumbled into the wrong ride. He didn’t look like the kind of man who stumbled anywhere.

The smart thing would’ve been to leave him there, abandon the car, cut your losses. But headlights swept across the mouth of the alley, and instinct took over. You yanked the gearshift, slammed your foot on the pedal, and the car surged forward. Tires screamed as you barreled into the night.

By the time you pulled into the crumbling garage behind your building, your pulse was still jackhammering. You killed the engine, head dropping against the wheel, breath ragged.

Safe. For now.

But then you remembered him.

Slowly, you turned. The stranger was still out cold in the back seat, head tilted just enough for the light to catch his features. And that’s when recognition hit you like a punch to the ribs. You’d seen that face before—in whispers, in warnings, in grainy photos passed around like ghost stories.

Christopher. The crime boss. The man who ruled half the city’s shadows.

And you had just brought him home.

You’d dragged him upstairs with every ounce of strength, half terrified the whole building would see. By the time you wrestled him into the chair in your tiny apartment, sweat slicked your back and your arms burned. Rope bit into your palms as you tied his wrists to the armrests, ankles bound to the legs. Double knots, triple knots—whatever your panic-stricken brain could manage.

You stepped back, chest heaving. He looked impossibly out of place here: platinum blond hair falling into his eyes, tailored suit wrinkled against your peeling wallpaper. Even tied up, unconscious, he radiated danger like a live wire humming in the room.

For a long moment you just stared, every nerve screaming. You had to do something. Call someone? Run? Pretend this wasn’t happening?

Then he stirred. A low sound escaped his throat, and his head lifted slightly. His brown eyes blinked open, sharp even through the haze of waking. They locked on you, confusion flickering into something more menacing.

Silence. Then, with infuriating calm, he tested the ropes and leaned back against the chair.

“Who hired you?” he asked finally.