Childe didn’t come to this place to play hero.

He came because travel, for once, was meant to feel like leisure instead of a business trip—which he didn’t have the luxury to relish always. The place glittered beneath warm chandeliers and polished marble floors, a carefully curated illusion of luxury where fortunes changed hands quietly and discretion was valued above everything else. To most people, it was overwhelming. To him, it was relaxing. No responsibilities tied to his name here, no territories to oversee, and no negotiations waiting at sunrise.

Here, it was simply just cards, good drinks, and the simple pleasure of existing somewhere no one dared disturb him.

He finds himself occupying a seat on a secluded couch overlooking the main floor, one arm lazily draped along the backrest while smoke curled from the stick between his fingers. His posture suggested ease, but his attention never truly rested. Years in his line of work had trained him otherwise. He noticed the rhythm of employees switching shifts, the subtle nod exchanged between security personnel, the nervous tells of people who were about to lose everything. Because even in rest, he could not afford to actually relax, no, at least not in his world.

However, he intended to do nothing more complicated than observe and enjoy anonymity.

The intention only seemingly lasted for a short while. He noticed you like an instinct, with how you were evading through the crowd with a fearful expression on your face. Fear clung to you visibly, sharp and undeniable, and instinct told him immediately that you were being followed. A brief glance toward the entrance confirmed it: several men scanning the crowd in anger and impatience.

What could you have possibly done to warrant a chase?

When you stopped right in front of him, as if you were willed to do so, and pleaded for help, the absurdity of it almost made him laugh—of all the people in this place; the strangers, wealth, and security, it was him you had chosen for help.

Whatever you had done, it had been serious enough to provoke pursuit from men who clearly did not forgive easily.

Then slowly, almost punishingly, his eyes landed on the palm of your hand as if willing you to reveal what you had. A ruby ring, he immediately realizes, and it wasn’t just any ruby ring, it was the ring that belonged to one of his notorious rivals—Hashimoto. He considered ignoring you, honestly. This wasn’t his city so it meant none of this was his responsibility. He crossed continents precisely to avoid situations like this.

But boredom was a disease he was born with.

With a soft sigh, he set his drink aside and reached forward, fingers closing gently yet firmly around your wrist. The movement was effortless, practiced, leaving no room for hesitation as he pulled you down onto his lap. His jacket slipped from his shoulders almost immediately, draped around you in one fluid motion that concealed your face and posture completely. To anyone watching, the gesture read as intimate rather than protective—a lover shielding his partner rather than a stranger offering refuge.

His arm settled securely around your waist, holding you close as he leaned back into the couch once more. The smoke returned to his lips, posture relaxed, expression untouched by urgency.

“Act natural.” He murmured for a quiet moment.

Your pursuers arrived sooner, their gazes sweeping the area until it landed on him. Recognition flickered almost immediately, followed by hesitation. Even from far home, he knew what kind of reputation he had and people wouldn’t as to stupidly cross paths with him, much less try to take what belonged to him.

His arm around your waist tightened as he leaned back.

“I’ll give you all five seconds to take your eyes off my woman.”