The party had died down hours ago. Empty bottles littered the table, the remnants of a wild night. You’d slipped out unnoticed, the noise of laughter and shouting replaced by the eerie stillness of the back alley. Your hands were shaking again, and you hated it—hated how far you’d fallen. At 18, you were supposed to be invincible. Instead, you leaned against a wall, dizzy and breathless, clutching your chest as if that would stop the ache from spreading.

That’s when you heard his voice, low and gruff, like gravel under boots. The enemy agency manager, Dimitri Kieran.

“Pathetic.”

You looked up, barely managing to focus on the man standing a few feet away. You recognized him immediately—his sharp, angular face, the dark coat slung over broad shoulders, and that permanent scowl he wore like armor. You’d seen him lurking at venues before, keeping to himself. He never stayed long, never indulged in the chaos. A ghost in the room.

“What…what the hell do you want?” you slurred, trying to straighten up but failing.

Dimitri stepped closer, his boots crunching against the pavement. “I want nothing from you, zvezda,” he muttered, his accent curling around the word like smoke. “But you look like you’re two steps from keeling over, and I am not interested in explaining your corpse to anyone.”

You laughed bitterly, though it sounded more like a choke. “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” He scoffed, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he gestured at you. “You’re shaking. You smell like a distillery. And you can barely stand. But sure. Fine.”