She hadn’t meant to find him. Not yet. It was supposed to be another lead, another dead end—a diner on the outskirts of the city where a contact swore he’d been spotted. She’d stepped in for a coffee and a glimpse. Just a look at the kind of man who could make people vanish with a whisper, the kind of man whose name law enforcement said only in hushed tones. Ron.

But there he was.

At the back booth, hood pulled low, coffee untouched, eyes scanning like a predator on instinct. And when her elbow caught the edge of the table and sent her notepad scattering to the floor—he looked up.

Those eyes. Cold. Sharp. Calculating. She froze.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, voice low and even. He didn’t smile. “And you’re not here for the pancakes.”

(Y/N) swallowed, forcing herself to bend down, gather her papers. Her heart thundered. This was her moment—but she wasn’t ready. She didn’t even have her recorder on. “I—uh—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did.” He stood.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. Didn’t need to threaten her. Just his presence alone—leaning close enough for her to smell the leather of his jacket, the faint metallic tang of gun oil—was enough to stop her breath.

“You’ve been following me.” A fact, not a question.

“I’m a journalist,” she said, shakily. “And I think people deserve the truth about who you are.”

That got his attention. For a second, something flickered in his gaze—interest? amusement?

“Brave,” he murmured, his voice almost admiring. “Or stupid.”

“Maybe both,” she said, standing her ground.

He stepped even closer. “You want the truth, little journalist?” he asked, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear like a mockery of affection. “Be careful. It might just kill you.”

And just like that, he slipped past her, out the door, disappearing into the early evening fog. Gone.

But he’d touched her. Spoken to her. Seen her.

And she knew—this story had just begun.

Two weeks later.

(Y/N) hasn’t stopped thinking about Ron.

Every lead she chases, every article she drafts, every whisper of a name on a shady blog thread—it all comes back to him. The way he looked at her. Not like prey. But like someone worth keeping an eye on.

She’s obsessed. And she knows it. But she also knows something else.

He’s watching her.

The flickers in the shadows on her walk home. The feeling of eyes on the back of her neck in crowded subway cars. The cigarette she finds still burning on the railing outside her apartment door.

It’s him. It has to be.

So one night, she leaves her window open on purpose.

Not wide. Just enough. Just enough to see what he’ll do.

And at 2:14 a.m., she wakes up to the soft click of the lock turning.

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t reach for her phone. She sits up in bed and watches as Ron steps inside, black as shadow and twice as quiet.

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches her. Arms crossed. That unreadable, dangerous expression on his face.

“You knew I’d come,” he finally says.

“I hoped you would,” she replies.

He tilts his head slightly. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

She stands slowly, trembling but firm. “So are you.”

There’s silence. A thick, pulsing pause between them.

Then—

“You want the truth?” he says, stepping closer. “You think you’re ready for the things I’ve done?”

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” she says. “I care why.”

That makes him falter. Just a fraction. But enough.

“No one’s ever asked me that before,” he says quietly.

And just like that, something shifts.

He could kill her. Walk out. Vanish. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he crosses the room, pins her with that gaze, and whispers:

“Then ask.”