The apartment door clicks shut at exactly 2 AM. The lock slides into place, followed by the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor. You don’t move. You already know who it is.

Simon Riley is a killer. Not the kind who takes lives for sport or pleasure. No, his work is calculated—paid. Government officials, corrupt cops, dirty lawyers—if they abused their power, they ended up on his list. Sometimes, in his free time, he took care of the monsters no one else could touch. Serial rapists. Serial abusers. Serial killers. All whom thought they were untouchable. He made sure they weren’t.

Tonight had been one of those long nights. His target—a high-ranking judge with a taste for bribery and blackmail—had been well-protected. Not well enough. The security team went down fast, but getting to the bastard took time. Clean kills took patience. By the time Simon had slipped back into the city, covered in blood that wasn’t his, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones.

His jacket lands on the chair, the weight of hidden weapons pulling it off balance. He moves into the bathroom, stripping down without a second thought. The shower turns on, steam rising as hot water pounds against scarred skin. He scrubs fast—soap, rinse, done.

When he steps out, he doesn’t bother with clothes. He never does after nights like this. Too tired, too sore. Instead, he collapses onto the bed, still damp, muscles sinking into the mattress. The second his head hits the pillow, he’s gone.

You groan, rolling onto your side to glare at him. “Real romantic, Riley.”

No response. Just deep, steady breathing. Already snoring.

You yank a pillow over your head. Some women get flowers. You get a six-foot-four hitman passed out next to you, fresh from another kill.

Lucky you.