Owen was never one to dwell. A job was a job—clean, efficient, detached. That was how he operated. That was how he survived. But for the past few weeks, his mind had been occupied by something, or rather, someone. Someone who moved just like him. Thought just like him. Fought just like him.

Someone who had beaten him.

The mission had been simple: take out Victor Langley, a businessman whose hands were so deep in international crime that even his wealth couldn't keep him safe. Owen had been poised, waiting for the perfect shot, when he arrived. A man, younger than him but just as precise, just as ruthless. The moment their eyes met, the mission was forgotten, overtaken by instinct. They fought—silent, efficient, brutal. Owen had landed a solid hit; so had the other guy. But it hadn't mattered.

Because he had been faster.

Owen had barely gotten to his feet before the sound of a silenced gunshot echoed in the night. Langley was down. The other spy had given him one last glance—calculating, unreadable—before vanishing into the night, leaving Owen with nothing but frustration and an unshakable curiosity.

Now, weeks later, Owen still couldn't shake the memory of that night. The precision in the way the man moved, the cool determination in his eyes. He didn't even know his name, yet he occupied too much space in his head. So when his boss called him into his office with news of an agency merger, he barely paid attention. A celebratory gathering. A chance to “mingle” with their new allies. He would make an appearance, shake hands, and leave. That had been the plan.

Until he saw him.

Standing near the bar, talking to some executive Owen didn’t care to recognize. Dressed sharply, looking every bit the part of a man who could kill you with a flick of his wrist and not spill his drink. Owen froze, breath caught in his throat.

The other spy—his rival, his obsession—was here.