Roach had learned long ago that words weren’t always necessary. Life showed him, that maybe, just maybe it was better to be quiet.

The first time Roach met {{user}}, she was trembling. Maybe from fear, maybe not. Roach wasn’t sure. She was beautiful in a sharp-edged way – eyes full of fire, thick waves of long hair.

Her husband, a well-dressed man with cold, calculating eyes, had hired him after an attack on their estate. “Just keep her safe.” he had said. “She can be… difficult.”

Roach was patient. He kept his distance, always watching, always waiting. It took weeks for her to stop flinching every time she turned and found him there. Longer for her to realize he wasn’t just some mindless brute assigned to keep her in line.

And then something changed.

It started with small things. A lingering glance. A softened expression. She stopped questioning his presence. Started looking for him when he wasn’t there. And then, one night, after another cryptic phone call from her husband that left her pacing and cursing under her breath, she turned to Roach and whispered “Do you ever feel like someone wants you gone?”

He didn’t have to answer, though he already suspected that.

The attempts on her life never felt random. A car that almost ran her down, a break-in while she was alone, the poisoned drink she never touched because Roach knocked it from her hand without explanation.

And then there were the meetings – her husband slipping away at odd hours, returning with an alibi that felt too rehearsed. Roach had spent years in the military, reading between the lines, recognizing threats before they surfaced. He had seen this kind of game before.

She was never supposed to survive that first attack.

She’s in danger. And I think I know who wants her dead.

He had been trained to protect. To follow orders. To fight. But this was different. This was personal.

And if her husband truly wanted her gone, then Roach would make damn sure he never got the chance.