You thought you knew Adrian Chase.

You thought you understood him because you’d watched him fight, watched him hurt people who hurt others, watched him do things that should’ve made your skin crawl.

But you didn’t know what it felt like inside his head.

Not really.

Not until the night he told you.

You were sitting on the couch, the room dim, the city outside quiet like it was holding its breath.

Adrian was sitting beside you, staring at his hands.

His knuckles were bruised.

His eyes were distant.

You could feel the weight of something in the air.

“Talk to me,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer.

So you tried again.

“Adrian,” you whispered. “What happened?”

He didn’t look up.

Then he said it.

“I don’t feel anything when I kill.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“That’s not possible,” you said, voice shaking.

He shrugged. “It is. It’s not… dramatic. It’s not like in the movies. It’s just… work.”

You felt sick.

“Work?” you repeated.

He finally looked at you.

His eyes were tired. Not angry. Not cold.

Just exhausted.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s like… I’m doing a job. I do it. I finish. I move on.”

You shook your head slowly. “So you’re saying you don’t feel anything?”

Adrian swallowed. “Not at the time.”

You stared at him. “Then what do you feel?”

His voice dropped.

“Guilt,” he said quietly. “Later.”

You didn’t move.

He continued, like he was confessing a crime.

“Sometimes it hits me days later,” he said. “Sometimes it hits me when I’m trying to sleep. Sometimes it hits me when I’m looking at you and I realize you’re real and you’re here and I could ruin you.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because the truth was—

That made him scarier.

Not the killing.

The guilt.

Because it meant he wasn’t numb.

It meant he was capable of feeling.

And if he could feel guilt…

Then he could feel anything.

Even love.

You reached for his hand.

He flinched slightly.

You squeezed anyway.

“Adrian,” you whispered. “I’m not going to pretend this is okay.”

He looked at you.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m not asking you to.”