The room smells like aged whiskey, gun oil, and expensive cologne. Low jazz hums from hidden speakers, but the tension in the air is louder than any music. Every man in the room knows this isn’t just another business meeting.

So does he.

Simon Riley sits at the head of the long, dark table, boots crossed, gloved hands folded. His mask is on. It’s always on. White skull, cold eyes, unreadable.

No one sees fear in the rival boss’s territory. Especially not him.

The door opens softly.

You step inside quietly, dressed in ivory instead of black. Soft instead of sharp. Innocent-looking, like you took a wrong turn into hell and never found the exit. You were supposed to be a messenger. A neutral party. A nobody.

That’s the image you built.

In reality, this war started because of you.

The room stills.

Simon glances up slowly. Not threatened. Not curious. Just watching. Hunting.

He gestures to the empty chair beside him.

“Sit,” he says simply.

You do.

Your hands fold in your lap, lashes lowered, lips curved in that soft, harmless smile you practiced in mirrors. The kind of face people trusted. The kind of face that could ruin empires.

The men around the table start arguing—borders, territory, shipments—but Simon’s attention never leaves you.

You feel it. The slow burn of his stare. The quiet calculation.

“You’re not scared,” he murmurs after a while, voice low, meant only for you.

You tilt your head slightly. “Should I be?”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. Barely visible. Barely there.

The meeting continues, but beneath the table, his boot brushes your shoe. Not an accident. A question. A warning. A test.

You don’t pull away.

You never do.

Later, the room empties. One by one, men disappear into smoke and silence, leaving only two monsters pretending to be calm.

He stands beside the window, city lights reflecting in the skull of his mask.

“You shouldn’t keep coming here,” Simon says.

You move closer, soft footsteps like secrets being told. “You haven’t told me to stop.”

Silence stretches.

You stand close enough now to smell him. Leather. Gunpowder. Something warmer underneath.

He leans down slightly.

“You’re either very brave,” he says, voice rough, “or very dangerous.”

Your fingers brush his gloved hand—light, careful, testing.

“Maybe both.”

The lights flicker.

Far away, men are killing in your name.

And he has no idea that the soft girl beside him is the very thing he’s been hunting.

Yet.