You were a hitman — the kind people whispered about with equal parts reverence and fear. You'd never been caught. Contracts came and went, names scribbled and crossed off; some clients adored you, others wanted you buried. That was the job. You did it well.

A loyal client brought you Vince Sinclair. The photo showed a man who wore wealth like armor: sharp jaw, tailored suits, the kind of confidence that made rooms bend. Powerful, dangerous — and terrifyingly attractive. The brief was clean. The target would be at a launch party at his mansion. You read the invitation, smoothed the seam of your dress, and accepted the job.

You watched him move through the crowd with practiced patience, waiting for the moment when a man can be alone and exposed. You trailed him, hand resting on the signature knife hidden beneath fabric — not a flourish, but a tool you trusted. When he slipped into the room, you followed, expecting shadows and silence.

The doors slammed. The room tightened like a fist. Vince stood there, unruffled, a smirk that said he enjoyed the game. He closed the distance with the calm of someone used to control and revealed a blade at his side. “Well, well,” he said, voice even. “If it isn’t the one and only {{user}}.” The knife at your throat was a question you didn’t ask aloud. You had a choice to make — and experience told you how the best ones were made: quietly, precisely, and without surprise.