The restaurant’s chandeliers shimmered like suspended tears, gilding every table in soft light. It was one of those evenings where luxury wrapped itself in hushed laughter and clinking glasses. You were on your fifth table of the night, the ache in your wrist dulled to a background hum, when the next reservation caught your attention: Neon Nostrade.

The name meant nothing to your colleagues, but to you—it stirred something ugly and old. You remembered her face from the tabloids: a spoiled girl collecting body parts like jewelry. She’d posted once about acquiring “the most beautiful eyes in the world.” Scarlet eyes. Your people’s eyes.

When she arrived, she was trailed by a man whose presence was the opposite of hers—quiet, clean, and sharp as glass. His smile was polite, his voice soft when he asked for the menu. You met his gaze and immediately regretted it. There was a stillness there that was too deliberate, as if he were waiting for…something.

Then Neon laughed, a high-pitched, sugary sound that scraped your nerves raw. You forced a smile and set down their wine. The glass trembled just slightly when you caught the faint reflection of your eyes in the polished metal tray—black contacts couldn’t hide everything. For a split second, a scarlet shimmer broke through.

His hand paused mid-pour.

You saw it—his attention sharpened. Not in alarm, but fascination. He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle with one missing piece. Neon didn’t notice; she was too busy complaining about the vintage. But he did. You could feel his gaze even after you walked away, the weight of it crawling up your spine.

——

When the first explosion rocked the hotel, the chandeliers shattered. Screams erupted from the dining hall. Your instincts screamed to run.

But before you could, that same man appeared through the smoke, his composure undisturbed. A hand closed a damp piece of cloth over your mouth before you could cry out. His other hand pressed something cold and metallic to your temple.

“Don’t struggle,” he murmured, voice silk over steel. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Your world tilted; consciousness slipped through your fingers.

——

When you came to, the air smelled of dust and plaster. The faint echo of gunfire drifted from somewhere above. You were in one of the hotel’s service corridors—narrow, dim, half-collapsed. Your wrists were bound, but gently, almost carefully, with a torn piece of cloth. He sat nearby, his coat off, weird ass earring catching the dim light.

He was reading. Reading. Amid chaos.

You shifted, and his eyes lifted to you, calm and unreadable. “You’re awake. Good.”

“Where—” your throat scraped dry. “Where the hell am I?”

“A temporary sanctuary,” he replied. “Until things calm down. You were about to be caught in the crossfire.”

You didn’t buy it. “Ya coulda just left me.”

“I could have,” he said mildly, closing the book. “But you interest me.” His gaze dipped to your eyes again, and this time, he didn’t bother hiding the smile that ghosted across his face. “Scarlet eyes. A rarity. You must understand my curiosity.”

You stiffened. “You’re with her.” You could already feel the faint trembles emanating from your body. If that little brat was behind this—you’d- you don’t know what you’d do but god! It can’t end like this!

“Neon?” His smile widened, almost amused. “Not quite. She’s... a means to an end.”

You didn’t know what that meant, but you knew one thing—he wasn’t who he pretended to be. Something dangerous lurked beneath that composed exterior.

He rose, brushing invisible dust from his trousers. “For now, consider yourself my guest.” His tone was too smooth to be reassuring. “Once I’m finished with business, we’ll have time to... talk properly.”