You shouldn’t be alive.

Felix knows that better than anyone.

The contract had your name on it three weeks ago. Clean job. High pay. No complications. And yet here you are, standing across from him in the dim back room of a closed bar, the air heavy with dust and old smoke.

Felix leans against the wall, jacket still on, gloves half-peeled from his hands. His gaze never leaves you—sharp, calculating, almost curious.

“You don’t look like someone who survives by accident,” he says calmly. No threat in his voice. That’s worse.

He was supposed to kill you. Instead, he delayed. Watched. Learned your habits. The way you move. The way you don’t flinch when you should. Somewhere along the line, the job became… something else.

A rivalry. A question?

Felix straightens, taking a step closer. Not too close. Never careless.

“I need to know,” he murmurs, eyes darkening slightly, “are you running from me… or toward me?”