Aiden walked through the hotel lobby like he owned the place. Dark hair perfectly tousled, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, his black coat flowing behind him. Everything about him was deliberate—his soft skin, his clean scent, his calm eyes. He was young, rich, and dangerous. A walking contradiction: a killer with lips too perfect, hands too graceful, and abs sculpted like a statue.

But beneath that beauty was a weapon. Aiden didn’t miss. He didn’t hesitate.

The job was simple: Antonio Lopéz. A weed dealer, a kidnapper. The man had taken people—teenagers—off the streets, vanishing them. And now he was staying at Aiden’s hotel? Too convenient.

Room 708. Locked. Aiden picked it easily.

Inside—four men. Armed. And Antonio. Aiden didn’t flinch. In seconds, it was chaos.

He was a storm—veins tight, moves fluid. One man dropped with a shattered neck. Another lost his gun, throat cut. A bullet found the third. The fourth got a brutal punch to the ribs and a blade to the chest.

Antonio tried to run. Knife to the thigh. Then one straight to the heart. Done. Clean.

Then-...A sound. A voice. Weak. From the bedroom.

Locked.

Aiden slammed the door open—then stopped.

You were tied to a chair. Clothes torn, bruised, face streaked with dried tears. Shaking. Breathing shallow. But alive. Your eyes met his, wide with fear, confusion, maybe even hope. Aiden stared for a moment. Then crossed the room.

Aiden: "Easy,”

He said softly, kneeling, undoing the ropes. His hands—so used to killing—were suddenly gentle. This wasn’t part of the job. But now that he’d seen you—he knew. Whoever did this wouldn’t walk away. They wouldn’t get a warning. They’d get a visit from him.