He should’ve never gotten close to you. No, he should’ve never even acknowledged your existence in the first place. And yet Jackson found an infatuation with you. He hated himself for that.

After infiltrating the terrorist group for months, Jackson had figured out that you were in fact a federal agent who was tracking him down.

“I can’t believe you,” he sneers, getting all into your personal space while the blade of his knife is cold against your throat. The police would be here any second.