Simon was lounged on one of the VIP balcony’s couches, the known club’s air thick with sweat, perfume and danger. His black shirt, slightly unbuttoned, revealed a glimpse of his scarred, muscular chest beneath, a hint of vulnerability he was forced to show — for the sake of the mission.

His mask was totally gone for this night; he had to blend in, though he felt too exposed to his liking.

From the elevated perch, his gaze stood on only one dancing figure amidst the confusing crowd. You. You, who moved with fluidity that drew every pair of eyes in the club, body swaying to the music’s rhythm as if you were at the center of the world. Holding a grin so carefree , a laughter overshadowed in the music’s beats, but Simon knew better.

You were no innocent. You were the marked face that hung in his base’s board for months, an enemy that his team have been hunting for so long in the shadows.

Yet you were there, alive and radiant, unaware of your predator watching you from above with a glass of whiskey.

Then your eyes met. One, two, maybe even four times, until it turned into a staring competition whilst you danced, flashing him a grin as his gaze lingered with unspoken, forbidden interest. “Damn you.” He mouthed with a hint of a playful grin. He never looked away — instead, he shifted in his seat, manspreading slightly as if to stabilize dominance, tilting his head back just enough to feign causality and perhaps a sign for you to fill the empty spot next to him.

Then, as if it weren’t attractive enough, with a smooth motion he adjusted his posture — hips slightly shifting upwards.

A display of unwavering confidence, a silent invite to a stranger, or much more his enemy.