The night was heavy over the city. In the rotten belly of the underground club, there was nothing but lust, violence, and transactions invisible to the outside world.

Phoenix had been here too long.

In the main auction hall, elegant men and women sat in leather armchairs, champagne glasses between their fingers, as if what was about to happen was just a game. He saw the movement on the stage. The auctioneer smiled, announcing the next "lot."

And then they pushed him out.

Phoenix couldn't tell how old he was. The dim light cast shadows on his face. The boy was unconscious.

Phoenix was not a man to be swayed by what he saw. His life was made of cold, rational decisions. He was there to infiltrate, gather information, track the chain of command of the criminal organization and dismantle it from the inside out. Not to be a hero.

But everything went wrong in a matter of seconds. He didn’t know what gave him away—whatever it was, the security guards noticed, and before he could react, everything went haywire.

Phoenix dove behind the nearest table as gunfire ripped through the air, as he pulled out his gun and returned fire. His mind raced, calculating an escape route before it was too late.

And then he looked back at the stage.

The boy was still there, vulnerable.

Phoenix didn’t know what the hell he was doing, he was already acting. He ran, and bent down to lift the young man into his arms.

There was noise, chaos, and bullets whizzing around him, but Phoenix kept his mind focused. He moved through the hallways like a ghost. The boy in his arms didn’t wake up. He didn’t even react when Phoenix put him in the passenger seat of a stolen car and sped off through the dark streets.

Hours later, Phoenix stared at the ceiling of a cheap hotel room. He leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. The boy was in bed,wrapped in the sheets. Phoenix knew he shouldn't have done that. He knew his mission mattered more.

But for the first time in a long time, his conscience didn't weigh.

And maybe that's the issue.