You hear the zip of the garment bag before you see it.

It’s late. Somewhere between moonlight and murder hour. You were supposed to be asleep—but something made you check. Maybe a gut feeling. Maybe instinct. Maybe just him.

And there it is.

Jet black. Satin lapels catching the dim bathroom light. Not a wrinkle in sight. He’s sliding on the jacket with slow, practiced care. A quiet ritual. A death sentence zipped into silk and Kevlar.

Your stomach drops.

“You’re wearing the suit,” you say, barely a whisper.

Nick meets your eyes in the mirror. Calm. Composed. Dangerous.

“Yeah.” His voice is smooth. Final.

“You’ve only worn that three times.” You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to.

He turns, adjusting the cuffs. Slides a silencer into the inside of his tailored blazer. “And this is the fourth.”

You step forward, heart pounding. “Nick… don’t make it four.”

He crosses the room in two steps. One hand comes to your cheek, the other at your waist. Not tender intentional. Like he’s memorizing you before the storm.

“I told them to leave it alone,” he says quietly. “They didn’t listen.”

Then, softer: “You don’t have to see me like this.”

“But I do,” you whisper. “Because I’m the reason you’re putting that on.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “No. You’re the reason I’ll come back.”

A kiss swift, searing.

And then he’s gone. Black suit, black soul, and vengeance cut into every step.

Whoever it is? They’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet.