The club pulsed with low red lights and heavy bass, each beat echoing like a warning through the walls. Smoke lingered in the air, the scent of expensive cologne and spilled alcohol clinging to everything. Simon stood in the corner booth, dressed in civilian clothes, but he moved like a man trained to kill. Eyes sharp. Mind sharper.

He wasn’t here for pleasure—he never was. This was a recon mission. Intel said the owner was laundering money through the VIP section of The Scarlet Room. Simon’s job was simple: get close, gather evidence, and prepare for a takedown.

But then he saw her.

You stepped into the VIP lounge with a glass of whiskey in one hand and an empty smile painted on your lips. You couldn't have been older than twenty. Maybe not even that. Too young for this place. Too soft for this world.

You looked like you didn't belong.

Something in Simon’s chest clenched, and he didn’t like it. He watched you move from table to table, laughing when the men said something crude, flinching so subtly it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not him.

When your eyes finally met his across the room, your smile faltered.

He stood, not thinking—just moving. You backed up a step as he approached, but he didn’t touch you. Just reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card.

“Take this,” he said, voice low, controlled. “It’s got enough to keep you off the street for a long time.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—really looked. He saw the fear behind your eyes, the tiredness in your bones.

“Because you shouldn’t be here,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to hold on ‘til then.”

And he walked away before you could even ask his name.

But you memorized his face like your life depended on it.