You arrived in the middle of a police chase. The abandoned stretch of your hometown had always been a magnet for trouble—new faces, familiar fear, shop owners learning when to look away. You’d grown up knowing that part of town wasn’t safe, but tonight it felt especially wrong.
And then you saw him. He didn’t look like he belonged here.
Dressed in warm browns, almost cowboy-like, he sat slouched in a chair with his legs spread, a small fidget ball rolling between long fingers. Platinum-blond hair, cropped short. Clean. Expensive. The kind of man who looked untouched by the mess around him. He didn’t look nervous. He looked bored.
The officers pressed him about the robberies—voices sharp, impatient. He answered lazily, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug, as if none of it mattered. “I’m telling you, officer,” he said calmly, “I couldn’t have stolen anything. I don’t even know this area.”
he spoke with mockery. A smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking briefly—too briefly—toward you. The moment lingered, something unreadable passing between you before he looked away again.
He scanned the officers in front of him, then the surrounding street—calculating. When he moved, it was sudden. The gunshot rang out. Shouts. Movement. Panic. Before your mind could catch up, his hand wrapped around your wrist—firm, deliberate—and he pulled you into the chaos.
“Hey—!” you gasped, stumbling after him.
You fought his grip, heart racing. You couldn’t be here. Not like this. Not when the officer shouting his name was your father.
He dragged you down into an underground unit, the door slamming shut behind you. You barely had time to inhale before—
“Are you deaf? Why am I—”
His palm covered your mouth.
The contact was jarring. Too intimate. Your breath hit his skin, your pulse loud in your ears.
“Do you ever shut up?” he murmured, low and sharp.
He was close—too close. You could feel the heat of him, the tension coiled beneath his calm. His eyes searched your face, lingering a second longer than necessary, as if committing it to memory.
You spoke against his hand, frustration bleeding through. He exhaled slowly before pulling away, irritation flickering across his expression.
“Do you know who I am?” you snapped. “Who my dad is? You’re finished if he finds—”
His hand slammed into the wall beside your head. The sound echoed.
You flinched, breath catching—not from fear alone, but from how close he was again. His gaze burned into yours, intense and unwavering.
“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why you’re here.” he pauses
“You’re leverage.”
He stepped back, breaking the space between you like it cost him something. Turning toward the kitchen area, he ran a hand through his hair.
The place was… luxurious. Polished surfaces. Soft lighting. It didn’t match the man who’d dragged you here—or the chaos outside.
“How long do you plan on keeping me here?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt.
He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Until your dad quits,” he replied. “He’s been chasing this ghost for years.” His eyes softened—just barely. “I showed up a few months ago. Guess I made things interesting.”
You scoffed. “You don’t know him. He’ll never quit.”
“Then I guess you’re staying,” he said, walking closer again—slower this time
The underground unit wasn’t cramped—but it was enclosed in a way that made escape feel impossible. A modern kitchen sat only a few steps away from a living area furnished in muted tones. Clean. Intentional. Lived in.
“You’re not getting your own room,” he said casually, shrugging off his jacket. “Too risky.”
Your stomach dropped. “There’s one bedroom.” He glanced at you, expression unreadable. “And no—sleeping on the couch isn’t an option.”
You folded your arms, bristling. “You seriously expect me to—”
“I expect you to stay alive,” he cut in. “Argue later.”
He walked past you, opening the bedroom door. Inside was worse—one bed. Neatly made. Large enough for two, small enough to make the implication unavoidable.