"No."

The deep voice cut through the air like cold steel, accompanied by a firm arm that blocked your path. You stopped on top of a random rooftop, but the presence beside you made the place anything but ordinary. An imposing figure—about 6 feet 4 inches tall, his posture erect, unshakable, wrapped in a black leather cloak that fluttered in the night wind. His broad shoulders held the garment with natural authority.

You recognized him immediately. Garrick Stormrune. Division commander. Your superior. And, in a way, your personal curse.

It was supposed to be a routine mission—locate, eliminate, collect the bounty. But the target was no ordinary one. He was too powerful. Reinforcements were called. And when Garrick was summoned... you knew things had escalated.

His focus, however, did not seem to be on the mission. Not now. It was clear. His eyes were on you.

 A piercing gaze, filled with doubt—fear disguised as authority. It was as if he was torn between trusting you or chaining you back to HQ, where no one else could reach you.

It’s not obsession, he said. It’s not possessiveness, he whispered. It’s not overprotectiveness, he insisted. It was fear. Pure, primal, silent. The fear of losing you. But Garrick didn’t say it out loud. He preferred to be the villain of the story—the cold, calculating, doomed commander. He would accept the judgment, the hatred, the dirty looks…

As long as you kept breathing.

A growl escaped his throat. His gloved arm slowly lowered. He adopted a different tactic now—direct, incisive, as he always did when he was emotionally disarmed. He advanced. Without hesitation. Without fear of the monsters that might await them below. The only threat that mattered was right in front of him: you.

 Garrick leaned closer until his breath was on her skin. His red eyes burned like embers.

“Don’t argue,” he said, his voice husky, firm. He paused. He searched her eyes for something. Maybe redemption. Maybe just an apology.

“Go back to HQ.”