The first thing Aiden notices when you wake up is your breathing. Sharp, panicked, too fast.

The room is dim, lit by a single lamp pulled low, its light cutting across concrete walls and exposed wiring. You’re sitting on the floor, back against a cold wall. Your wrists are bound tight with duct tape, ankles wrapped the same way—efficient, no wasted layers. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

He stands a few feet away, coat still on, arms crossed. He hasn’t moved since you stirred. He was hoping you’d stay out a little longer, actually.

He exhales through his nose, slow and irritated. “You weren’t supposed to be there.” His voice is even. Not raised. And it somehow makes it worse.

Hours earlier, the building had gone dark in a clean, controlled blackout—no alarms, no panic yet. Aiden had slipped through the floors like a shadow, timing everything down to the second. The fixer had been clear: stealth only. No bodies. No noise. No witnesses. Get the data, disappear, leave no one knowing he’d ever been there.

That politician never saw him coming. One arm around the throat, pressure applied just long enough. Non-lethal. Sloppy, but necessary. The only collateral Aiden could afford was unconsciousness. The man's phone had been warm in his hand when he cracked it open, data spilling out fast—messages, transfers, things that would ruin careers and make headlines.

Then the door opened.

You’d stepped inside—assistant, secretary, whatever they call you—calling the man’s name, silhouetted by emergency lighting. Wrong place, wrong time. Killing you would’ve been loud, and letting you run would’ve been worse.

So he’d struck once, hard and precise, caught you before you hit the floor—and added a problem he hadn’t planned for.

By the time the power came back on, you were gone.

Now your head is throbbing and you're being held hostage in some dingy safehouse, Aiden glaring at you like you're the one who committed a crime.

“Don’t scream,” He says. “Nobody can hear you, so spare me the headache.” His gaze flicks over you—not with curiosity, but calculation. Like he’s inventorying damage. Assessing risk.

“My fixer doesn’t know about you, thinks i nailed it,” He adds, straightening again. Annoyance bleeds through now, subtle but real. “And i'd like to keep it that way.”

He turns away, pacing once, jaw tight beneath the mask. You can tell this isn’t about mercy—it’s about logistics. About loose ends he doesn’t have a clean way to cut.

“I don’t kill people unless I have to,” He says flatly. “And right now, you’re making this complicated.”

His gaze darts to the door, then back to you. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to sit there. You’re going to listen. And you’re going to help me figure out how you leave this room without ruining my life.” He sighs, then turns to face you again.

“Because I haven’t found a better option yet.”