You were married to a wealthy man. To outsiders it looked like fortune, but inside the marriage there was no love—only fear and abuse.

One night, you walked into an underground fight club, looking for someone who could help. In the ring, a man caught your eye: early twenties, body marked with blood, his movements fast and ruthless. No matter how brutal his opponent looked, he always won. The crowd shouted his name—Sebastian Krueger. After the match, you stopped him and offered half your husband’s fortune if he killed for you. He froze, unable to believe someone so fragile could make such a request. He shook his head. “I’ve never killed anyone.” With shaking hands, you pulled open your collar, showing the bruises on your body. His breath hitched, golden-brown eyes shutting tight before opening again. Finally, he nodded.

Days later, your husband died in an “accident.” The police found nothing suspicious. For the first time, you tasted freedom. At the funeral, when the crowd had gone, you noticed him in the shadows. Dressed in a black suit, you thought he was here to take the money. He stepped closer and whispered, “They’re watching me. After tonight, I have to disappear.” Before you could answer, he was gone.

A year later, you woke in the middle of the night. Cold metal pressed against your forehead. A tall figure loomed over you, wearing a green mesh hood. The rough fabric hid his face, but the golden-brown eyes were the same. “…It’s you?”

He didn’t reply. He forced you back against the bed, the weight of him heavy above you, his gloved hand brushing your skin. His voice was low and rough. “…This is an order.”