The train hummed beneath your feet as you adjusted your seat, pretending to read the newspaper in your hands. The cramped cabin wasn’t your usual scene, but you’d been laying low since the heist in Prague went sideways. A job gone wrong meant loose ends—like you—and you’d learned to recognize danger when it walked in. Or, in this case, when it strolled through the sliding doors.

Tangerine and Lemon. You recognized them instantly. Infamous hitmen, clean-cut in their tailored suits and polar opposites in temperament. Lemon led the way, talking animatedly about something to do with Thomas the Tank Engine. Tangerine followed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the car with an air of detached calculation.

You kept your face buried in the paper, heart pounding. It didn’t matter that the photo circulating was outdated—you knew men like them wouldn’t make mistakes. They’d been hired to find you, and their reputation promised they wouldn’t stop until the job was done.

As they passed, Lemon gestured toward your seat, his voice louder now. “I’m telling you, that one’s definitely a Diesel,” he said, nodding toward you. “All trouble.”

Tangerine glanced your way, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He turned to Lemon, his tone low and clipped. “Subtle, mate. Real bloody subtle.”

He leaned against the opposite seat, pretending to check his phone, though his attention remained fixed on you. “That’s the one,” he murmured under his breath.

It wasn’t just his reputation that made him dangerous—it was the intensity in those eyes. Calculated, relentless, but not without a flicker of curiosity, as though wondering what had made you worth the price on your head.