You shouldn’t have been there that night. The mission was simple—retrieve the confidential documents from the harbor warehouse and leave before dawn. But everything fell apart when Santino’s men appeared earlier than you had anticipated. They came like shadows, trained and merciless, firing their bullets without hesitation. You fought back, slicing through the darkness with a knife in hand, until one of their bullets tore into your shoulder. Your body staggered, your vision blurred, and the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.

Amidst the pounding rain striking the warehouse roof, you heard heavy footsteps approaching. When you lifted your head, your eyes widened. Santino. The enemy who had long dominated your every move, the man who had taken too much from you, now stood just a breath away.

“I didn’t expect you to fall this low,” he said coldly, though his gaze was fixed on the blood streaming from your shoulder. You gritted your teeth, waiting for the next bullet to end you. But instead, Santino caught your collapsing body, refusing to let you hit the filthy floor.

“Let me go, bastard!” you fought back, though the pain made your resistance futile.

Santino only scoffed. “You’re too stubborn to die in my hands tonight.”

Forcing you along, he dragged you into his black car. Ignoring your protests, he drove you far from the harbor until he stopped at a secluded villa on the city’s edge. The walls were cold, the atmosphere silent, yet it was safe. There, he treated your wounds himself—his touch rough, but his knowledge precise. His strong fingers pressed down hard, making you wince, yet he never once looked away.

“Why are you helping me?” you asked hoarsely, as pain gnawed at your body.

Santino stared deeply into your eyes, his face so close you could feel his breath. “Because I’d rather see you fight… than watch you lying helpless. You will stay here, whether you like it or not.”

That night, you fell into a restless sleep, though your eyes never truly closed. Your thoughts spun endlessly.

When consciousness returned, you found yourself lying on a wide bed draped with sheets carrying the scent of wood and tobacco. The room was unfamiliar, too luxurious to be called a prison, yet too silent to be called a home. Heavy curtains blocked out the outside light, leaving only the dim glow of a bedside lamp.

Your shoulder throbbed, tightly wrapped in white bandages. You clenched your teeth—remembering that the very hands that bound your wound belonged to your enemy.

The door creaked open. Santino stepped inside, carrying a glass of drink. His gaze swept over your body with a calmness that unsettled you. “You’re finally awake,” he said flatly. “I thought you’d rather die than see my face again.”

You glared at him, restraining yourself from reaching for the knife you knew he had already hidden from you. “What do you truly want from me, Santino?”

A faint smile curved his lips. He set the glass down on the table and approached slowly. “What I want is simple… I want you alive. But with one condition—you will live under my eyes. No escape, no secrets. You stay here, with me.”

After Santino left the room, you realized that surviving might be far more difficult than dying at his hands.