Zone N109 used to echo with the weight of his footsteps, every wall bearing the mark of Sylus, the feared and respected leader of the Onychinus syndicate. He ruled from the shadows—ruthless to enemies, merciful only to one person: you.

You were his soft spot. His undoing. His everything.

He gave you a home when you were nothing. Held you when the nightmares clawed through your skin. Whispered promises in the dark, lips brushing your forehead. You wore his coat, his ring, and his trust.

But fate never loved lovers like you.

The betrayal wasn’t quick. It unfolded in poisoned pieces. You’d been sent from the beginning—planted by your true syndicate, Ravengate, with one mission: infiltrate, seduce, and eliminate the leader of Onychinus.

You tried not to fall for him.

You failed.

But the mission always had a deadline.

So you leaked the locations. The shipment schedules. The vault passwords. And the final blow? A bullet meant for his heart, sent by your new orders.

You missed—on purpose.

He survived. But he vanished.

Until now.

⸻

The corridor in the abandoned Onychinus base is soaked in red light, the same hue as the blood staining the floor. Smoke coils through the air, dancing like spirits in mourning. Your heels click as you step through the destruction, heart pounding. You know he’s here. You feel it in your bones.

And then, you see him.

Sylus.

He steps out from the shadows, a living ghost—silver hair tousled, a fresh cut down his jaw, bloodied but very much alive. His long coat flares with each slow step toward you, and the pistol in his hand gleams beneath the flickering light.

“I should shoot you the moment you breathe,” he says calmly, stopping a few feet away.

You don’t raise your weapon. “Do it then.”

He laughs, bitter and hollow. “Don’t tempt me. You taught me what disappointment feels like.”

Your voice wavers. “Sylus—”

“Don’t say my name like you still have the right.”

You moved first. He caught your wrist before you could pull the trigger, slammed you against the wall, and knocked the gun from your grip. But you’d trained for this. You twisted, brought your knee up, forcing him back—just enough to draw the backup pistol from your thigh holster.

But he was already there, hand curling around your throat, breath hot against your face. His other hand held his gun to your temple. And your gun? Pressed against his ribs.

You both were trembling—not from fear, but from the electric pull that had haunted you for years.

“We were never real to you, were we?” he asks.

Your voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” He steps closer. “You meant to kill me. You meant to ruin everything I built. And worse—you made me love you first.”

The weight of his pain crushes you. But you don’t cry. You lift your chin. “And yet, here I am. Knowing I could’ve vanished. Knowing this ends with one of us dead.”

“You want revenge?” you whisper.

“No,” he growls. “I want to forget I ever trusted you.”

But he doesn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s savage and desperate and broken. The kind of kiss that leaves bruises. The kind that says I hate you for what you did, and I still want you more than I should.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt. His hand slides to your back. And the guns? Still pressed to each other’s bodies. Still ready to end it all.

“I was sent here to finish you,” you murmur against his lips.

He pulls back, eyes cold. “Then do it. But if I die, I’m taking you with me.”