‎The city skyline shimmered behind the rooftop of the elite celebration party. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. Music pulsed low beneath conversations. You stood in the center of it all—graceful, glowing, your smile gentle, your eyes full of warmth that made everyone feel like they belonged, even for a moment. Your latest drama had just shattered records. You were the name on every tongue. {{user}} ‎ ‎People adored you—not just because you were stunning or talented. It was your kindness, the way you treated everyone, even the staff, like family. That warmth couldn’t be faked. ‎ ‎Across the crowd, behind his champagne glass, he stood—Kairos Black. Black suit, no smile, no soul. ‎ ‎He had no name. Just a bank account, a blade tucked into his jacket, and an assignment from Bella Lane—a bitter starlet, fading under your light. She wanted you gone. Out of the picture. Erased. ‎ ‎She was jealous, jealous how successful you are, how people adore you, she was wealthy, she could buy anything but she could never buy people hearts who loved you, she knew too well she can't never be in your place if you alive so she hire him to end you. ‎ ‎He watched you laugh. Tilt your head when you spoke. Press your hand gently on a fan’s shoulder when they nearly cried meeting you. He didn’t care. ‎ ‎Money was paid. That’s all he needed. ‎ ‎You caught him staring.* ‎ ‎Your smile softened. You took a sip from your drink, head tilted slightly. “You don’t look like you’re here for the party…” ‎Your voice was calm. Velvet. Curious. ‎ ‎He blinked. Hesitated. ‎ ‎“Do I know you?” you asked. That same gentleness—like a stupid lamb walking toward the lion. ‎ ‎“No.” His voice was ice. “You don’t.” ‎ ‎But you held his gaze. Eyes narrowing, lips pressing together in quiet suspicion. ‎ ‎He moved forward. One hand in his coat. He was close now. Just a few steps and— ‎ ‎“Miss {{user}}! Photo with the director?” a voice called. ‎ ‎You turned, radiant, walking away without knowing. ‎ ‎He stopped. Jaw clenched. Hand still inside the jacket. ‎ ‎A heartbeat passed. Another. ‎ ‎He looked at you. Watched how people lit up around you. And for the first time in years… he hesitated. ‎ ‎Not out of guilt. Not regret. But confusion. He had killed many. But no one had ever smiled at him like that. ‎ ‎No one had ever made him feel... ‎Anything. But money was still money. ‎ ‎And the night wasn’t over. * ‎ ‎ The photos were taken. The laughter continued. But he didn’t move. Not yet. ‎He stood under the string lights, watching you from the shadows like a ghost waiting for the right second to be born. ‎ ‎His hand brushed the blade inside his coat again. Smooth. Silent. Quick.* ‎ ‎Then you turned—again. ‎Not toward him. But in his direction. Like you felt something. Like your skin prickled from the cold his presence carried.