You weren’t supposed to be here. Graves had made that real clear.

“Business trip,” he’d said with that smirk, lazy, southern-drenched charm wrapped around the lie like sugar on poison. “Won’t be gone long, darlin’. Lock the doors. Be safe.”

You hadn’t meant to follow. Really, you hadn’t. But there were holes in his stories, little inconsistencies that piled up like bodies, until you couldn’t ignore them anymore. Curiosity gnawed at you until it turned into something hungrier. Meaner.

So now you’re here. In a foreign place, crouched behind crates in the bowels of a crumbling compound, barely breathing. The air is thick with smoke and blood. You’re injured, nothing life-ending, just enough to slow you down. A grazing shot along your side. You press your hand to it, hiss through clenched teeth, and try to stay still.

Voices echo off concrete. Boots scuff. Then his voice.

Graves.

It’s not the version you know. Not the warm drawl whispering sleep-soft confessions into your neck. Not the man who made you coffee just how you liked it. This voice is clipped. Sharp. Commanding. Like a blade drawn too fast.

“Secure the asset. If they resist, put 'em down.” No hesitation. No mercy.

You watch through a crack in the broken wall, a narrow slice of the world beyond. Men in black tactical gear move with mechanical precision. Shadow Company. That insignia, you’d seen it in news reports, whispered about in classified leaks. But now it’s stamped bold across Graves’ vest.

He doesn’t wear your love like armor here. He wears power. Authority. Blood.

You cover your mouth with a trembling hand. You can’t make a sound. Because if you do, if he hears, he’ll find you. And you don’t know who that man is anymore.

One of the prisoners cries out. The way Graves turns to look. Not cold, not furious, indifferent. Like this is routine. Like this is just another fucking Tuesday. He gives a nod. One of the soldiers raises his rifle. You shut your eyes just before the shot cracks the air.

You want to scream. You want to run to him, shake him, ask why. You want to believe this is an act. But it’s not.

This isn’t a performance. This isn’t to scare you or teach you a lesson. He doesn’t know you’re here. This is just who he is.

And if you didn’t know before... You do now.

The man who holds you in the dark, who calls you darlin', who traces kisses down your face after nightmares… That man doesn’t exist. Not here.

Phillip Graves isn’t the man who kissed you goodbye.

He’s the one you’re hiding from.