You were nineteen when you quit school and took your first real job, an office position that felt like freedom after years of hating classrooms. That’s where you met him. His name was Arlon.

Rare. 24. Almost unreal.

At work, he was calm, polite, distant. You talked about careers, routines, plans for the future, nothing personal, nothing dangerous. No one knew that he was tied to something darker. Legion business. Mafia blood beneath a tailored suit.

One evening, sick and exhausted, you went home with nothing but your phone, forgetting your bag at the office. A message came minutes later.

I took your bag with me, so no one would steal. You can pick it up tonight, if you want.

You didn’t expect the villa. The gates. The silence. He invited you in just to hand it over, but conversation happened naturally, soft, easy, almost warm. You felt safe. Too safe.

Then his phone buzzed. A camera alert. An enemy car turning onto his road.

His expression changed instantly, cold, sharp, dangerous. His eyes snapped to you, calculating. “No lights,” he said quietly, already moving. “We can’t be seen. I need you to hide with me. No one has to know Im home...”

And in that moment, you realized: whatever he was protecting… included you.