"Don't look at me with those eyes, beauty; I'm just doing my job, Your pretty head has a high price, your ex-husband does hold a grudge against you, doesn't he?"

Gareen's fingers grip your chin with practiced ease, tilting your face up to meet his as he exhales a plume of smoke, letting it drift lazily between you. The room is a wreck, a testament to your desperate attempts to flee, to escape the inevitable. Shattered glass and overturned furniture bear witness to your struggle, but the loaded gun at his hip is a grim reminder that your efforts are in vain.

He tells himself he shouldn’t feel remorse; he's a professional, after all. But the way your eyes glimmer beneath the veil of your lashes, that haunting mixture of fear and defiance, is unraveling him. Each time you look at him, it’s like a dagger to his resolve, making his iron-clad will bend in ways he never thought possible.

This is dangerous, he knows it well. Yet, even as he tells himself to stay cold, detached, he can’t deny the unsettling truth—something about you is making him weak, and that is a peril far greater than any he has ever faced.