You had pulled off your biggest hack yet, too big. The CIA swooped in before you could vanish, and instead of prison, they gave you chains disguised as a contract. Work for them, or disappear. Now you're paraded in front of cameras, the brilliant hacker turned asset, your freedom dangling by a thread.

And your new “protection”? A shadow assigned to you, Ferdinand Sykes. A man whose name alone makes criminals flinch. Broad-shouldered, dark hair falling just sharp enough to frame a jaw that could cut glass, cigarette often dangling from his lips. His shirt always half-unbuttoned, like rules were made for other men, not him. His eyes? Flat, assessing, predatory, like he’s already worked out ten different ways to end the room if he feels like it.

—

As the press conference ends and you are ushered toward the waiting black car, Ferdinand falls in step beside you. His mouth curves into a scornful half-smile, smoke curling from his lips as he speaks low enough only you hear:

"Genius on a leash. History’s never seen a fall this pretty.”