He had always been a man of precision, a businessman whose days were filled with contracts, negotiations, and power that stretched far beyond his office walls. Bang Chan’s life was built on control — control of his empire, of his emotions, of the chaos around him. He thrived in a world where trust was currency, and betrayal was expected. That was why, when he first met you, he never once thought of love. You were supposed to be another connection, another passing face in a sea of strangers. Yet something about you lingered. Something dangerous, though he didn’t know it yet.

He remembered the first time your eyes met. You weren’t timid, you weren’t nervous, and you weren’t trying to please him. Instead, you matched his energy: sharp, calculating, fearless. He admired that, even if he didn’t show it. What he didn’t know was that you had come into his life with a mission: to make him fall, to break him, to kill him.

Chan had seen betrayal in all its forms, but he never suspected you. How could he, when every moment with you felt disarmingly genuine? You laughed at his exhaustion, you teased him when he worked too late, you brought warmth into the cold routines of his days. At first, he convinced himself it was just a distraction. A pleasant one, but a distraction nonetheless. Still, nights grew longer, and somehow you were always there — your voice in his ear, your smile breaking down walls he thought were impenetrable.

The more time passed, the more he realized he had fallen. He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Perhaps it was when he caught you studying him like no one ever had, memorizing the little things he thought no one noticed: the way he drummed his fingers when he was anxious, how he loosened his tie the moment stress pressed too tightly against his chest. Or maybe it was the night you reached out to touch his scar, not with judgment or fear, but with something close to tenderness. For once, someone didn’t look at his scars as symbols of power or survival. You looked at him like he was human.

He started to trust you. That was his mistake.

Chan noticed the moments when your eyes darkened, when silence stretched between you after someone mentioned betrayal or death. He didn’t press you, though he wanted to. He told himself that everyone carried their demons. He just didn’t know yours had a name — orders, managers, punishment carved into your skin for hesitation. He didn’t know that every scar on your body was a warning: you were not here to love him, you were here to destroy him.

But fate has a cruel way of tangling strings. The closer you got to him, the harder it became for you to do what you had been sent to do. He noticed your hesitation. He noticed the way your eyes softened when they should have stayed sharp. And in his chest, he began to feel both fear and hope — fear that he was wrong to trust you, hope that maybe, just maybe, you were different.

Then came the warning.

His connections whispered of danger, that someone was coming for him today. He prepared himself the way he always did — strategically, efficiently. Guards placed, defenses ready. Yet as the day wore on, an unease crept into him. A whisper in the back of his mind told him he already knew who was coming. He brushed it aside until he saw the carnage outside his office. His guards — men trained for years — fell too easily. Too gracefully. Too much like you.

And then, the door opened.

His breath caught when he saw you standing there. Not a stranger, not the faceless assassin he had imagined, but you. The one who had laughed with him, the one who had made him believe, if only for a moment, that love was still something he could have.

“No,” he whispered, his voice breaking with disbelief and betrayal. His chest tightened, not with fear of dying, but with something far worse: the realization that he had given his heart to the very person who came to end him. “Don’t do this to me…”