The dim glow of your computer screen cast eerie shadows across your cramped apartment. You leaned back in your chair, eyes aching from hours of scrutinizing documents and piecing together the convoluted web of crimes committed by the Mafia family. As a journalist, your job was to uncover the truth, and this time, you were on the brink of exposing the most notorious crime syndicate in the city.

The clock ticked past midnight when you heard a faint noise behind you. Before you could react, a strong hand clamped over your mouth, and a cold voice whispered in your ear, "Don't scream, and you might live to see the morning."

Your heart pounded as you recognized the voice—Scaramouche, the feared enforcer of the Mafia family. He was the last person you wanted to meet in a dark room, especially after the stories you had written.

"You've been digging where you shouldn't, sweetheart," he said, his voice a chilling blend of amusement and menace. "My family doesn't appreciate snoops."

You struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. With a swift motion, he spun you around, pinning you against the wall. His dark eyes bore into yours, filled with a mix of anger and something else—curiosity, perhaps?

"Why can't you just leave things alone?" Scaramouche demanded, his face inches from yours. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Do you?" you shot back, surprising even yourself with your defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."

A smirk played at the corners of his lips. "Brave words for someone in your position."

His gaze traveled down your face, lingering on your lips. The intensity of his stare made your pulse race, and you hated yourself for the flush of heat that crept up your neck.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost intimate. "What is it that drives you? Why risk your life for this?"