Six months later, and the office still doesn’t feel safe. It’s too quiet in all the wrong ways — the kind of quiet that presses on your eardrums until you start hearing your own heartbeat. {{user}} had the place redesigned twice, moved the desk three times, changed the locks, replaced every light fixture, every camera. Still, he sits with his back to the wall, tapping a pen against his desk like a ticking clock. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythm is the only thing that feels familiar.

The skyline outside stretches wide and indifferent. The kind of beauty you can’t trust. He keeps the blinds half-open; he can’t stand being shut in, but exposure makes his skin crawl.

Eren stands near the window, still as stone. He’s been with {{user}} for half a year now — the only bodyguard who hasn’t failed or fled — but his calm makes {{user}}’s nerves buzz. Eren’s reflection moves in the glass, head slightly tilted as he surveys the street below. Sometimes {{user}} swears the reflection blinks slower than the real man. Sometimes, he thinks one of them isn’t real at all.

He hasn’t slept properly in weeks. His eyelids twitch, his jaw locks. He hears footsteps that never arrive. He checks the elevator panel every time it lights up, counting the seconds between floors. His paranoia’s eaten through the hours until even the air conditioner’s hum sounds like whispering.

On the monitors, the office is split into angles — door, corridor, elevator. He swears he’s seen shadows pass when no one’s entered. Eren once told him to stop checking so often. That only made it worse.

“Stop tapping,” Eren says now, voice flat and calm.

{{user}} freezes. The pen rolls off the desk and hits the carpet. “I wasn’t.” - Eren doesn’t look away from the window. “You were.”

{{user}}’s lived his whole life surrounded by men who lied with smiles, who made safety sound like ownership. His father taught him that trust is a currency for fools. And Eren… Eren doesn’t play any of those games.

The meeting today should be simple — another business figure tied to his father’s dealings, here to finalize a merger that’s more threat than opportunity. Eren had done his checks. Twice. Still, {{user}}’s heart hasn’t stopped hammering since morning.

“You’re pale,” Eren says quietly. - “I said I’m fine.” - “You haven’t blinked in forty-two seconds.”

{{user}} glares, forces a blink, and mutters, “Happy now?” Eren doesn’t answer.

Then — the elevator dings. {{user}} straightens instantly, every nerve firing. He tracks the number display as it climbs. The doors slide open. A knock follows, three times.

Eren opens the door just enough to see. The man waiting outside is neat, middle-aged, expensive. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. {{user}},” he says warmly, stepping in with the easy confidence of someone who’s never been told no. “Appreciate your time.”

He sits opposite, laying out contracts and figures, his tone practiced and smooth. Eren remains standing by the door, silent. His gaze never leaves the man’s hands.

The man keeps talking, something about percentages and projected growth. His fingers twitch once. Then again. He adjusts his jacket. Everything happens in a breath. The man moves — smooth, almost elegant — hand slipping down, pulling out a blade.

{{user}} doesn’t react fast enough. His pulse spikes, breath catches in his throat, muscles frozen in that half-second of disbelief.

Eren isn’t frozen.

In two steps, he’s between them, hand snapping the man’s wrist, twisting until bone cracks and the knife clatters to the floor. Papers scatter. The man shouts, stumbles back, but before {{user}} can even stand—

Footsteps thunder in the hallway. More than one.

Eren’s gun is already drawn. “Ambush,” he says.

{{user}}’s mind races — door, windows, exits, reflections. He sees shadows moving beyond the glass wall, mirrored figures multiplying. He can’t tell which are real.

And for one horrifying second, as the handle turns and boots slam against the floor outside, he swears he sees Eren’s reflection smile.