The dim light from the streetlamp framed the sharp edges of his face, cutting long shadows across his squared jaw and the straight, harsh line of his mouth. His hair, dark and short, was slightly tousled, flattened in places by his palm from hours of absentminded running his fingers through it. The amber hue of his eyes reflected the faintest flicker of light, more predator than man, half-lidded and unreadable.

The room was stripped bare — no pictures, no keepsakes, no signs of life. Just a bed, the sharp corners of its frame made up with military precision. The faint glint of metal rested on the bedside table. His sidearm. Field-stripped. Cleaned. Oiled. His fingers still smelled faintly of the solvent, the scent settled deep into the webbing of his hands.

And then — the knock. A single, sharp rap on the door.

His head turned, slow, almost lazy, but the stillness that followed wasn’t relaxed. It was calculated. Whoever it was hadn’t knocked again. They didn’t need to. There was only one person who would knock like that. You.

Cassius stood, the motion fluid despite the heavy weight of his frame. His six-foot-four height made the room seem smaller, the air heavier. He moved toward the door with that same quiet precision — the kind you only learned if you’d spent years killing men in places that didn’t make the news.

The locks clicked one by one under his hand, metal scraping through the silence. Then the chain. Then the door. He cracked it open, just enough to see you.

And there you were.

You leaned against the frame like you weren’t hurt. Like it wasn’t serious. Like the kind of pain that would buckle most people was just another Thursday night for you. But your eyes gave you away.

And his own stayed locked there, cold and unflinching, for a long moment. Long enough for the tightness to pull, unseen, somewhere deep beneath the fortress of muscle and habit he'd built around himself.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Low and level.

"Inside."