The red suit feels too heavy on him—but somehow, he wears it like a crown.

You notice him long before he notices you. Or at least, that’s what he lets you believe.

Because men like him don’t miss anything.

You’re seated on the floor with the others, back pressed against the cold metal, fingers nervously twisting together as the tension in the room stretches thinner with every passing second. Guns. Masks. Commands whispered and shouted. Chaos disguised as control.

And then there’s him.

Walking through it all like it’s a performance.

Like he’s the one directing it.

His voice cuts clean through the noise, smooth, almost amused, giving orders like he’s reciting lines he’s said a hundred times before. There’s something unsettling about it—how calm he is, how detached.

Until his eyes land on you.

And linger.

It’s subtle. No one else notices. But you do. The way his head tilts slightly, the faint curve of something that isn’t quite a smile pulling at his lips.

Interest.

You drop your gaze immediately. You shouldn’t look. You know that. Out of everyone here, he’s the last person you want attention from.

Which is exactly why—

“Stand up.”

The command is quiet, directed at no one else. Just you.

And when you hesitate, his voice lowers, softer this time—but somehow more dangerous.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, pretty girl.”