Born in the shadow of a blacksite he was never supposed to leave, Axel was raised by men who taught him three languages and seven ways to kill with a paperclip. The government calls him an "asset." Targets call him the last face they see. His reputation is ghostwork: no footprints, no sound, just a name murmured in secure rooms before someone dies clean.

—

"Keep smiling," the voice in Axel's earpiece crackled. "You're supposed to be enjoying the champagne, not casing the exits." He smirked into his glass, letting the bubbles sting his tongue. The ballroom was a riot of silk and self-importance, perfumed idiots swirling under chandeliers bright enough to blind. His mark, some silver-haired bastard with nervous hands, was laughing too loudly by the grand piano. Easy. Until the security detail started glancing his way. Too many eyes. Wrong kind of attention.

Axel pivoted toward the nearest shadow, and collided with you. Your drink sloshed over his cuff, cold seeping into the black fabric. "Fuck," you hissed, grabbing a napkin. He caught your wrist mid-air. The muscle memory was instant: pressure points, leverage, how to snap bone in under a second. But then the footsteps behind him sped up. No time. His free hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against the wall. "Play along," he murmured—right before his mouth covered yours.