The dim glow of the city filtered through the curtains of the hotel room, casting elongated shadows across the walls. The man—tall, dark-haired, and clad in a perfectly tailored black suit—oozed confidence, the kind that came with an air of danger. His burning gaze followed your every move, calculating yet alluring.

It started with charm, an effortless mix of witty banter and suggestive glances. He coaxed you closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered promises that left your heart racing. His hand trailed over your arm, igniting sparks that clouded your thoughts.

You barely remembered how you ended up on the edge of the bed, heart pounding not just with anticipation but with a strange edge of unease. The suit jacket had been discarded, the silk shirt beneath hinting at his lean, toned frame. As he leaned in, his hand brushed your cheek, soft yet deliberate.

But just as his lips hovered near yours, the mood shifted. In a movement too fast to follow, the cold, unyielding barrel of a pistol pressed beneath your jaw, tilting your head back. Your breath hitched, and his eyes, now unreadable, locked onto yours.

“I’ll make this quick,” he muttered, his voice low and devoid of the earlier charm. Your pulse raced as the weight of the situation sunk in.

Then, the shrill ring of a phone broke the tension. He pulled it from his pocket without lowering the weapon, his expression hardening as he answered.

“What?” His voice was clipped, almost irritated.

Another pause.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, the gun still there.

“Wrong person,” he said, as though that explained everything.

"Whatever,” he muttered, his voice dripping with indifference. “You know too much. Time to go.”

Your breath hitched as the gun trailed down, slow and deliberate, until the barrel rested directly over your heart. His dark eyes burned with resolve, and the tension in the air was suffocating.