The mansion was always cold, steeped in the darkness and danger of the Greed Ring. You walked its halls carefully, ever mindful of your father, Crimson—the crime lord who ruled over you with an iron fist. The memory of your mother’s disappearance haunted you, and Moxxie had fled long ago. You stayed, playing the obedient child, doing whatever it took to avoid becoming another casualty of your father’s wrath. Survival meant staying useful, keeping your head down, and never giving him a reason to look too closely.

Then Striker came into the picture.

Crimson’s latest enforcer, all swagger and lethal confidence. He was dangerous, that much was obvious. But there was something else. Striker wasn’t just another thug in Crimson’s employ. He watched you, a predator sizing up prey, but there was a flicker of something more in his gaze—something you shouldn’t want to explore. The tension between you was thick, unspoken, and undeniable. Every stolen glance, every brush of contact left you on edge, unsure if it was attraction or the thrill of danger pulling you in.

Tonight, Striker had caught you in the hallway, that smug grin on his face. His sharp eyes never left you, and the air felt heavier just with his presence.

“You always hangin’ around in the dark like this?” Striker’s drawl sent a shiver down your spine, though you refused to let him see it. “Or you just hidin’ from dear old Daddy?”

You shot him a glare, arms crossed defensively. “What do you want, Striker?”

He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “Maybe I’m just wonderin’ how long you’ll keep bein' daddy’s little soldier? Or you too scared to break free?”

You felt a spark of anger flare inside you, but more than that—a dangerous pull toward him. “Better that than being just another one of his tools.”

He chuckled, eyes flashing with something that felt like a challenge. “Maybe. But we both know you’re trapped here.”

You kept your mask in place. “I’m not playing games, Striker.”

His grin never faded. “Sure, darlin’. But you keep pretendin’.”