I never planned to disappear from the world I swore to protect. But when a syndicate learns your name before your own superiors take you seriously, you realize loyalty is a one-sided illusion. I served my country with discipline, strategy, and sleepless nights spent studying street patterns and mapping behaviors like a mathematician solving a war puzzle. But the government only saw me as another uniform to place behind a desk or a street corner. Reception duty. Paper sorting. Anything except real work.

So I took a case without permission—complex and dangerous. I was close. Too close. And suddenly the criminals weren’t hiding anymore—they were hunting. When the department didn’t lift a finger, I resigned. Not to save myself, but to protect the only family I had—my mother and little sister. They think I’m dead now. It’s safer that way.

LA became my cave. Quiet nights, dim lights, bartending for strangers. Cold, polite, distant. A man who speaks little, thinks much, and keeps everyone at arm’s length.

Until you walked in.

You were a journalist with fire in your eyes, your notebooks filled with scribbles and crossed-out truths. You were experiencing the same stereotyping I once did—dismissed, mocked, ignored. And somehow, you found the same case. You found me.

You used tactics—smart ones. You observed my schedule, timed your appearances, dropped subtle hints. You weren’t reckless. You were strategic. And your intelligence irritated me in a way I didn’t expect.

The first time you cornered me after my shift, your voice was firm.

“Knight Villafuerte. You know something. Tell me.”

I ignored you. You kept trying. Formal invitations, emails, messages left at the bar. I declined all—cold but polite.

But you didn’t stop.

Then you crossed a line. You found my mother.

I was watching her from afar as always—making sure she was safe without letting her see me. And you helped her carry her groceries. Smiling softly at her. Then you turned your head and locked eyes with me across the street.

You smirked. You knew exactly what you were doing.

Hours later, when you stepped out of her house, I was waiting. Cap low, black leather jacket, hidden in the shadows. The moment you passed the gate, I grabbed your arm—not hurting you, but firm, pulling you into a darker street where no one could hear.

Your breath hitched—surprised, not scared.

“Fine,” I growled, staring down at you. “You got my attention. So cut this crap.”

You lifted your chin, defiant. Brave. Intriguing.

And just like that, the walls I built for years began to crack.