Shit was difficult in your time, your life was coming down at the seams to the point you felt like ripping the strands of hair from your head and banging it against the wall— at least that’s what you convinced yourself of when you’d indulged a thought that was supposed to be a fucking joke. Robbing the gas station down the street, use the money to pay off your tuition and car payment before it rammed you down.

And after planning for it, it went smoothly when the day came. Fake gun, mask, wig, gloves, different shoes. Voice changer. Your identity was completely concealed, no one would ever find out who the fuck decided to do it, right? Well fuck that, cause you were wrong.

Your apartment door’s already unlocked when you get home. The smell of cigarette smoke curls around the room, slow and steady. You freeze. You feel it before you see him. The quiet. The pressure. The predator sitting in the shadows. Then his voice cuts through the silence—low, smooth, dangerous, “You always rob places without checkin’ who they belong to, or am I just lucky?”

Cade “Smoke” Mercer sits on your couch like he owns it, one arm slung over the backrest, his black-on-black outfit sharp, gun metal tucked under his jacket like a promise. His eyes trail you slowly. Not frantic. Not angry. Amused. Controlled, “Cute little stunt you pulled. Took cash from my front. My people are impressed you’re still breathing.”

He stands. Calm. Measured. Steps quiet, but heavy with threat, sending wires of chills down your spine. Heart racing in your chest. Shit. “Now, I could break your hands for it. Could bury you in the same alley you crawled out of.”

His head tilts towards you, low smirk curling at his lips, his hand rubbing over the light goatee on his face, “But I’m thinkin’… maybe you’re better off owing me.”