“DOWN!”

Your voice cracked like a whip through the abandoned warehouse—but Nicholas was already moving. Of course he was. Nick never waited, never hesitated, never cared about the delicate choreography of a mission. He preferred chaos. He preferred the thrill. He lived in it.

You flattened yourself behind a toppled steel crate, heart pounding. Dust motes trembled in the cold air. The Hijovok Family had always favored old industrial spaces for their dealings—places where the ghosts of past crimes clung to the walls like mildew. Tonight was no different. Somewhere above you, a broken fluorescent flickered, casting long, nervous shadows across the concrete.

You were supposed to be gathering information, not starting a war.

You had spent three months infiltrating circles close to the Hijovoks, weaving lies with the same care a seamstress stitches silk—slow, careful, precise. They were one of the oldest mafia syndicates in the country, a name whispered in bars and police briefings alike. A family whose reputation was carved in bone and blood.

And yet here you were, crouching in the dark while your partner ignored every rule of engagement.

Nick darted across the open floor with a fluidity you’d seen only in predators. You barely had time to breathe before gunfire erupted—sharp, surgical bursts echoing against the corrugated walls. One. Two. Three.

The guards dropped before any of them could cry out. It happened so fast your brain staggered behind reality, scrambling to catch up.

How the hell—?

You pushed to your feet, boots scuffing the concrete. Shock and adrenaline tangled in your veins as you watched Nick stroll toward the nearest body with an unnervingly casual gait—like he’d just finished an errand rather than executed three armed men.

He knelt, rolling the guard’s corpse over with unnecessary enthusiasm. Then, disturbingly playful, he pressed his fingers into the man’s shoulder, testing the slack of dead muscle.

As if poking a creature at a carnival booth.

As if enjoying himself.

Blood smeared across his gloves, dripping onto the sleeves of his charcoal coat—the one he always fussed over, the one he treated with an almost sentimental fondness.

Nick sighed dramatically. “Oh, what a shame.” He held up his stained hand, turning it in the flickering light. “This was my favorite coat.”

Before you could form a word—any word—he lifted his fingers to his lips.

And licked the blood away.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The metallic scent of it hit you a second later, mingling with the rust, the oil, the fear. The world seemed to tilt, reality stretching too thin. Nick’s eyes met yours—calm, bright, almost amused.

In that moment, as the bodies cooled and silence thickened, you understood two things with chilling clarity:

First, Nicholas was far more dangerous than you had ever allowed yourself to believe. And second—

You were no longer certain which of you was really the spy.