The long corridor stretched out before Logan as if trying to drain the last of his strength. He ran, breathing heavily, feeling every inhale scrape against his chest in a ragged wheeze. Coming here without a solid plan had been madness—he’d known that from the start. Especially now, when Aldric Priss’s mansion was packed to the brim with his “distinguished elite,” people who smiled into expensive glasses while entire neighborhoods bled behind their polished backs.

He was supposed to pass unnoticed. Slip between the guards like a knife through soft butter—but the bodyguards turned out to be far more persistent than he expected. One managed to land a punch to his jaw hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyes, another slashed his side with a knife—shallow wound, but the blood had already seeped through his white shirt, gluing the fabric to his skin.

He crashed his shoulder against the wall, caught his breath, and peeked around the corner. Voices weren’t far. Time to disappear. He slipped into the first door he saw—a marble bathroom with a tall mirror and warm light. It smelled of expensive perfume and tranquility, a serenity that didn’t suit his condition at all. Logan ducked behind the shower screen and pressed his back against the cold tile. Finally, he allowed himself a quick, painful exhale. A second—just a second—of reprieve. His hand brushed toward the gun automatically—hide it, steady himself, think of a way out.

The click of the door cut through the silence like a gunshot.

He froze.

You entered with a confident, unhurried stride, as if the house belonged to you. Walked up to the mirror, fixing your hair—a calm, soft motion, the kind that restores order to the world. The light glided across your face, the curve of your neck, the shine of your outfit. And Logan felt that same forbidden sensation again: you overwhelmed him with nothing but your presence. Too bright. Too close. Too dangerous for a man like him.

He remembered the photographs in the file—the ones he needed for the job—yet for some reason he always saw you first, and only then the target. He kept those pictures longer than he should have. The meetings where he introduced himself again as “a friend of your father” stuck in his memory just as stubbornly as your smile.

He leaned forward slightly to see you through the narrow gap, and involuntarily exhaled. Louder than he meant to—the wound pulled with a sharp sting.

You turned abruptly, almost dropping your comb.

— “Fuck— what the hell!?”

Logan closed his eyes for a moment—shit. Then slowly, carefully moved the screen aside. He lifted his hand, palm forward—a gesture of surrender, a promise he wasn’t about to shoot.

— “Hey.. Shh.. I’m not here to ruin your evening,” — he rasped. — “And I wasn’t spying. Honestly. I just… ended up in the wrong place.”

He tried to smirk; it came out crooked. For a few seconds he looked at you—too long, too openly. His gaze traced your features, pausing at your eyes, as if searching in them for salvation from this whole night.

— “You look beautiful,” he added quietly, and there was no teasing, no flirt in his voice. Just a simple, sharp truth that slipped out before he could stop it.