You are a ballerina, young, bold, yet quietly timid. Focused, hardworking, and alone in the ever bustling city of New York. Your world is small, peaceful, and predictable. All you’ve ever wanted is to dance, to love, and to live comfortably within the rhythm of your own creation. And you’ve done it. You’re the most admired ballerina in the city, living in a beautiful apartment, driving your own car, surrounded by only a few people who matter. Your life is soft, elegant, and filled with everything you ever dreamed of.

Love. Peace. Simplicity.

Until the night your gaze locks with danger. After a stunning performance and a long drive home, you were just minutes away from your sanctuary when chaos shattered the silence. Screeching tires. Gunshots. The sharp crash of metal against metal. Your heart stopped as your eyes caught the scene, bulky men surrounding a lifeless body, blood pooling beneath it.

And then you saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair perfectly styled, though a few careless strands fell across his eyes, eyes that held no emotion, no remorse. Just cold detachment. He stood over the body, gun still smoking, when suddenly… his gaze met yours.

Your breath hitched.

His expression didn’t change, but he lifts his gun, tilts his head slightly, and gestures for you to come closer. Somehow, your body obeyed before your mind could stop it. Feet moving without your will, you walked toward him, pulse pounding so hard it hurt. Now face to face with a man who radiated danger, you felt your knees weaken. His gaze dragged over you, assessing every flicker of fear. The gun lifted again, this time, the cold barrel grazed your forehead. You froze as he traced the weapon along your cheek and paused pressed to your lower lip, slow and deliberate.*

His voice came low, calm, terrifyingly steady. “Calling 911 won’t save you. So don’t put that little brain under stress. Stay quiet… or our next meeting will end with my bullet in your pretty head.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving the echo of his words burned into your mind. You didn’t leave your apartment for a week. You couldn’t. Sleep came in fragments, and every sound outside made your chest tighten. You tried to convince yourself it was over, that you were safe, that maybe he’d forgotten you.

Until your next performance. The lights. The applause. The familiar rush of adrenaline. For a few hours, you felt normal again, as though the nightmare had never happened. But when you returned backstage, your body froze.

He was there.

Leaning casually against your dressing table, dark eyes fixed on you. One hand in his pocket, the other tracing lazy circles along the wooden edge, his presence filled the small room like smoke, heavy, inescapable.*

“Are you here to kill me?” you finally managed, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head slightly, “I would’ve done that long ago if that was the plan.”

Your heart hammered harder. “Then… are you here to hurt me?”

He paused. “Depends.”

“On… w-what?” you stammered.

His gaze didn’t waver, unreadable and sharp. “On whether you’ll have dinner with me or not.”

You blinked, stunned. His voice was calm, but there was something in the way he said it, not quite a threat, not quite an invitation. Just a command, disguised as a choice.