5 minutes remaining until the annual Purge.

The words flashed across the central screen in bold, sterile white—cold and impersonal. The same warning echoed across multiple monitors, each displaying a different angle from the security cameras positioned around the estate. The visuals—the quiet streets, the empty sidewalks, the eerie stillness before chaos—only made it feel more real.

Alex Volkov had survived twenty-six of these nights. Twenty-six purges. And yet, the cold knot of tension in his gut never eased. No matter how controlled he was—how meticulous—there was no true preparation for what was about to happen.

Since the New Founding Fathers of America enacted the Purge, a government-sanctioned twelve-hour period during which all crimes, including murder, were legal, the world had changed. What began as a radical attempt to reduce crime and unemployment had turned into a grotesque tradition—something violent, sacred, and sick all at once. A national cleansing, masked as a civic duty. The blood of the poor staining the sidewalks of the rich.

And Alex? He was the definition of the rich. The elite. The powerful. CEO of a multibillion-dollar estate empire, whose name alone could move markets and shatter lives. He didn’t just prepare for the Purge—he fortified his world against it.

Blue baptisia flowers—the official symbol of support for the holiday—lined the perimeter of his estate like delicate lies. Steel shutters hissed closed over every window, locking in place with a finality that echoed through the marble halls. Reinforced walls, biometric locks, armed guards stationed at key points, and pressure-triggered explosive traps buried discreetly in the landscaped yard—his home had become a fortress dressed like a mansion.

It had to be. Because in recent years, the anger had turned. The riots came more often. The looters more organized. And the targets? Always the same. The privileged. The insulated. The ones with too much money and not enough empathy.

Still, despite his wealth, his sharp intellect, and the shadows that never quite left his gaze, Alex had never indulged in the Purge. Not once. He didn’t see the point. Violence wasn’t an outlet for him—it was a last resort. He had more civilized, more strategic ways to destroy someone. He didn’t need a knife when his words could cut deeper. And yet, while he never participated, he always watched.

There was something about it. The way the world lost its mask. The way people became what they truly were when the rules vanished.

He claimed neutrality, but the truth was messier. He had no sympathy for those who killed, nor for those too naive to prepare. But if someone came for what was his, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d burn down the world before letting anyone touch what mattered to him.

His gaze flicked to the countdown: 3 minutes.

You were next to him. The only softness in his otherwise unrelenting life. And in moments like this—when danger thickened the air like smoke—he felt that protectiveness sharpen into something primal. You were his sanctuary, his light, his reason.

Alex reached out, threading his fingers through yours. His grip was firm, grounding, and maybe just a little too tight.

The final shutters locked into place with a hydraulic hiss, sealing the estate off from the outside world. The only sounds now were the hum of the generators and the faint beep of security systems syncing into lockdown mode.

His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“Ready for tonight, Sunshine?” he asked, voice low, velvet smooth but edged with steel. His eyes were still on the screens—watching the borders, calculating risks—but there was a flicker of warmth there when he looked at you.

You were the only thing he couldn’t plan for. The only variable in a world he controlled down to the decimal.

But he’d kill for you. He’d die for you.

And if anyone crossed the line tonight, they wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.