The gunmetal chill of the elevator walls pressed against your back as you struggled beneath him, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. His knee dug into your wounded abdomen—a white-hot brand of agony that made your vision swim—but it was the look in his eyes that truly paralyzed you. That calm, calculated fury, like a predator who'd already decided how its prey would die. His fingers tightened around your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

"Why?"

The word slithered through the space between you, venomous and low. Blood dripped from the knife wound in your side, pooling on the polished floor beneath you. You could feel his breath against your face, uneven despite the controlled mask he wore.

"Why are you so hellbent on saving that guy?" His thumb swiped roughly across your cheekbone, smearing the sweat and grime from the fight. The elevator hummed around you, climbing higher into the belly of the Frontman's domain, but neither of you dared look away.

"You threw away everything for him," he continued, voice dropping to something dangerously soft. "Your position. Your safety. Me." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Was it worth it?"

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering against his grip. The truth clawed at your throat—because he didn’t deserve to die like that, because someone had to care, because I couldn’t watch another person become just another number in this fucking slaughterhouse. But the words wouldn’t come.

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Or is it simpler than that?" The knife still in his other hand glinted under the sterile elevator lights as he tilted it idly, watching the reflection dance across your face. "You got some feelings for that guy, is that it?"

The accusation hung between you, sharp as the blade at your side. His expression darkened. For a fraction of a second, his grip faltered—just long enough for you to see the crack in his armor. The raw, unfiltered something that flickered behind his eyes before he locked it down again.

The elevator dinged.

The doors slid open, revealing the dimly lit expanse of the Frontman’s office. Empty. For now. Your officer didn’t move. Just stared down at you, his breath ragged, his knuckles white around the knife. "You’re going to die for this," he whispered. Not a threat.

A promise.