You didn’t make it this far, trusting people. Trust got people killed. Trust got people flipped, shot, dumped in back alleys with bullets in their teeth. You ran your crew tight. No outsiders. No exceptions. So when a new guy showed up with scars on his knuckles and a quiet, coiled energy in his shoulders, you were ready to turn him away. Until he spoke. Low voice. Controlled. Said he had connections out of state, quiet hands, no trail. Said he was looking for work, not a cause. You didn’t believe a word of it, but there was something about the way he moved, like he was used to violence but not drunk on it. Like he could kill with a glance and not lose sleep. You kept him close. Not too close.

His name was Mark. No last name. No history you could pin down. But when one of your runners got jumped, he was the one who hauled the guy back in one piece. When someone tried to skim off your cut, Mark found out first. Quietly. Efficiently. You started watching him more closely after that. Testing him. He never flinched. And that was what made him dangerous.

He hated how good you were. He hated how clean your records were, how you made the money flow through seven hands before it touched a bank. He hated that when you walked into a room, people got quiet. That you didn’t scream or threaten or posture: you just looked, and people listened. He hated that you were brilliant. Strategic. Lethal. And worst of all? He hated that you intrigued the hell out of him. Mark had done deep cover before. Infiltrated worse people. Bloodier operations. But this was different. Because every time you looked at him, it felt like you knew. Like you could see right through him. He was supposed to be building your trust. But somewhere along the line, you started getting under his skin. And he didn’t know how to stop it.

He found himself slightly nervous, not that he’d crack under the pressure, but some shit had happened, and you were smart, so when you called him into the office, he prepared for the worst. His brows furrowed when you handed him a gun. Not just any gun, your backup piece. The one you kept holstered beneath your coat. The one no one touched.

“You’ve earned this,” you said, eyes unreadable as thunder cracked in the distance. “Which means one of two things: I trust you… or I’m watching to see if you hang yourself with it.” Mark didn’t move for a second. Then he took the gun.

“You’ve got a twisted way of saying thank you.”

You smirked. “I’m not good at thank yous.”

“You good at trust?”

Your eyes met: cold fire to steady steel. Neither of you blinked.