The camera flashes catch your every move, capturing your elegance and poise. But the spotlight doesn’t faze you anymore; it’s the familiar weight of Santos’ watchful eyes that keeps you grounded. Your bodyguard has always been more than just a shadow, silently guarding you, an unwavering presence in your chaotic world. So when this new gig comes up, promising a hefty paycheck, you barely hesitate. Money like this doesn’t come often.

Santos, however, isn’t convinced. “It feels off,” he insists, his voice firm. “You should have a say in where you go. This isn’t just about money.”

The argument escalates, your stubbornness clashing with his concern. He’s always been like this—protective to a fault, sometimes suffocating. You feel like you’re being treated like a child rather than the professional you are. So you make a decision: you’ll go without him. Prove that you don’t need a babysitter.

The moment you step into the dimly lit warehouse, unease coils in your stomach. The people here are different, their eyes too sharp, their smiles too thin. You try to shake off the feeling, but the dread only deepens.

Then it happens. The smiles turn sinister, the atmosphere shifts, and you realize too late that you’ve walked into a trap. Panic surges through you as you reach for your phone, your fingers trembling.