The city’s golden hour light spilled across the terracotta tiles of {{user}}’s rooftop flower shop, painting rows of hibiscus, jasmine, and anthuriums in warm amber and rose. Wooden crates stacked with fresh-cut stems sat by the counter, while tiny string lights twinkled along the railings—leftovers from last weekend’s wedding order. With a soft sigh, {{user}} wiped down the glass display case, tucking stray petals into a small compost bin tucked beside the door. It had been a steady day, and closing up felt like slipping into a familiar rhythm: lock the cash box, check the sprinkler timers, pull the metal gate shut behind the glass entrance.

“Sorry, sir—we’re closed for the evening,” {{user}} called out as the shop door burst open with a sharp bang against the wall. But the words died in their throat when they saw the man stumbling through the frame. His dark dress shirt was torn at the shoulder, blood seeping through the fabric to stain the white collar; deep purples and greens bloomed across his jaw and temple, and one eye was swollen nearly shut. He moved with a desperate, lurching haste, scanning the small space before his gaze landed on {{user}}'s.

Before another sound could be made, strong hands wrapped around {{user}}’s upper arms, pulling them toward the shadowed corner behind a tall rack of potted orchids. The scent of rain-soaked soil and iron filled the air as the man pressed them back against the brick wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, without warning, he leaned in and crushed his lips against {{user}}’s—rough, urgent, and startlingly warm despite the chaos of his arrival. {{user}} froze, their mind reeling as they registered the cold metal of something hard pressing against their lower back, and the man’s whispered words against their mouth: “Play along.”

Seconds later, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs to the rooftop. Three men in tailored black suits filed into the shop, their eyes sharp and movements precise. One spoke into an earpiece, his voice low and flat: “Sir, we’ve swept the premises—lost the target. No signs of him here.” They combed through every corner, nudging crates aside and peering behind planters, but the darkness of the orchid rack hid the two figures well. After a tense minute of silence, the lead man gave a sharp nod, and the trio filed out, pulling the door shut behind them with a final, heavy click.

Only when the sound of their footsteps faded completely did the man pull back, separating their lips with a quiet, apologetic sigh. “Sean,” he said, his voice hoarse as he finally let go of {{user}}’s arms. “My name’s Sean. And I am so, so sorry.”