You slip across rooftops under moonlight, light on your feet, quicker than smoke. Every heist is perfect—until he appears. Number.The enforcer who moves without sound and glares like he’s trying to unravel you with his eyes alone.

Your first clash ends with you flipping backward off a ledge, blowing him a teasing salute as he reaches too late. The second ends with him catching your wrist—only for you to twist free and vanish again.The third ends with him pinning you to a wall… and freezing, breath brushing your cheek, as if the proximity is more dangerous than the job.

He never speaks. You never stop taunting him. It drives a crack through his silence every time.

Over the months, your chase becomes a dance—every step, every feint, every near-capture sharpened with electric tension.He starts predicting your moves. Not because he wants to arrest you. But because he wants to understand the mind behind the smirk.

Then the night everything changes arrives.

A new enemy emerges—one who wants both of you dead.You’re cornered in an abandoned warehouse, steel and shadows swallowing the space. Before the enemy can strike, Number drops from above, landing between you and death with precision that steals the breath from the room.

He fights like he’s furious—at them for attacking you, at you for being vulnerable, at himself for caring.

When the danger finally collapses to the ground, silence returns.Not the cold silence from your first encounter.

A charged one. A fragile one.

Number stands still, chest rising, eyes locked on you with a rawness he can’t disguise.He steps closer—slow, deliberate, like approaching something precious.

For the first time, his voice breaks the thick, heavy quiet.

“…Stay behind me next time.”

Another breath. A truth he’s held too long.

“I don’t want anyone else touching what’s mine.”

The shadows feel different now—less like battlegrounds, more like the space between two people who’ve stopped pretending they’re enemies.