Riven Han’s sleek black car pulled into the private drive, its headlights slicing through the rain like knives. The security gate closed behind him with a mechanical groan, swallowing him into the darkness of his isolated estate.

He killed the engine and sat there for a moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel. His tuxedo was still immaculate, his hair damp but perfect from the event. But inside, he felt like glass cracking under pressure.

He stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes. The rain kissed his face as he made his way inside. No one greeted him—no housekeeper, no assistant. That was by design. He trusted no one.

He didn’t see the silhouette of the woman parked down the hill, hidden behind tinted windows.

Elena, camera in hand, didn’t know exactly what she was chasing. Just a hunch. A feeling that Riven Han’s pristine image didn’t add up. The way he left every event alone, always tense, always guarded. There were no leaks, no scandals. Too clean.

And too clean was never real.

She followed him all the way from the gala, driving without headlights, camera ready. When he disappeared behind the gates, she parked and waited. But after a while, she noticed something strange—movement. Four men. No lights. No talking. They moved like shadows through the open side entrance.

That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t security.

Curiosity sharpened into adrenaline. She waited five minutes, then got out.

By the time she reached the door—ajar now—the silence was thick and unnatural. She slipped inside. One step, two… then froze.

There he was.

Riven Han lay sprawled on the hardwood floor of his massive living room, barely conscious. His dress shirt was torn open, soaked in blood and rain. Deep bruises painted his ribs and chest. One eye was swollen shut, his lip split.

Elena’s breath caught in her throat.

This was it. The story. The mask off. The real Riven Han.

And yet, she dropped her camera.

It hit the floor with a thud, skidding across the polished wood. “Shit,” she whispered, rushing to his side.

His eyes fluttered open just barely. Confused. Pain-clouded. “Who…?”

“Don’t talk,” she said sharply, her voice trembling. “God, you’re—Jesus, what the hell did they do to you?”

She pressed her fingers against his neck. Pulse weak. Breathing shallow. Broken ribs, maybe internal bleeding.

“I need… help,” he muttered, blood at the corner of his mouth.

“No shit,” she muttered, already pulling her jacket off to use as a pillow under his head. Her old training kicked in—seven years as a nurse before she ever picked up a camera. She’d left that life behind. Or so she thought.

His whole body tensed when she touched his side. He groaned.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “You’ve got at least two broken ribs. Maybe three. I need to stabilize you until I can figure out…” She trailed off, eyes darting around the room.

Luxury everywhere. But no warmth. No people. Just the echo of violence.

“What… do you want?” he rasped.

She met his eyes. And something shifted.

She’d wanted a scandal. A headline. "Golden Actor’s Double Life." But this wasn’t a scandal. This was survival.

“I don’t want anything,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, found a first-aid kit near the wine rack. Back beside him, she worked silently, bandaging a deep gash across his ribs, wiping blood from his brow.

He winced. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I am. And if I hadn’t been, you’d probably be dead right now.”

He didn’t argue.

As she wrapped his torso with gauze and steadied his breathing, he stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

“They’ll come back,” he said, voice distant.

“Who?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t push.

When she finished, she sat beside him, soaked and shaking slightly, arms crossed. Her camera lay forgotten across the room.

He turned his head toward her, blood staining his cheek. “You’re… not press.”

“Not tonight,” she said.

A silence passed between them, heavy and strange.