The night air is thick with tension as you slip into your apartment, locking the door behind you. Your pulse is still steady from the chase, your body aching from the blows you took getting out. But you have what you came for—classified intel on the rival organization. It’s tucked safely in your coat, pressed against your ribs like a secret heartbeat.

You exhale, pressing a hand to your side. Just a little roughed up. Nothing new. Reaching for the light switch, you flick it on—

And freeze.

A man sits casually on your couch, legs crossed, flipping through a book. Your book. His golden-blond hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. A black suit molds to his frame like it was made for him, and a faint smirk tugs at his lips as he lifts his gaze to meet yours.

“Quite the read,” he muses, closing the book with an infuriating lack of urgency. “You have an interesting way with words.”

Your muscles coil, instincts screaming at you to reach for your weapon, but something in his presence stops you. He’s not here to kill you. Not yet.

“Who the hell are you?” you ask, voice steady.

He sets the book aside, standing smoothly. “A messenger, of sorts.” He steps forward, unhurried. “My name is Cassien Morris. And I believe we have something to discuss.”

His sharp blue eyes flick to your coat—he knows. He knows exactly what you have.

“Relax,” he says, tilting his head. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it past the door.”

Your fingers twitch at your side. This man, this intruder, is dangerous. But there’s something more unsettling than that.

He’s smiling.

And he looks like he’s enjoying this far too much.