You were a model — not just a pretty face, but a brand. Your image was everywhere, your life loud and public. But none of that mattered when the wrong people decided you were in the way.

A secret organization hired him. A freelance assassin. Quiet, clean, untraceable. You were just a name on a contract.

You were walking alone that night, leaving a work event. A glass building, late hours, cold wine. You texted your driver like always. Same routine.

You turned the corner.

Then— black.

No struggle. No warning. Just one sharp moment, and everything went dark. You were unconscious before your phone even hit the ground.

⸻

You wake up with a pounding headache. Arms behind you, wrists tied — not painfully, but controlled. Ankles too. You’re sitting upright in a wooden chair.

The basement is cold. Dim yellow light. Concrete walls. No windows. Just a single locked door at the top of the stairs.

Your chest tightens. You don’t know where you are.

And then — footsteps.

Heavy. Slow. Calm.

The door creaks open. A man walks down like he’s done this before.

No mask. No emotion. Just black clothes and unreadable eyes.

He stops a few steps away and looks at you like you’re nothing new.

Then, finally, he speaks — calm, cold, and maddeningly relaxed:

“You’re awake. That’s inconvenient.”

A pause. His voice stays flat.

“Didn’t really plan past the part where you stopped breathing.”