The training room was sweltering, the air thick with effort and testosterone as you stepped inside, camera in hand. You were supposed to capture shots for some promotional campaign—a glossy, PR-approved image of military discipline and grit. But the sight that greeted you made your feet falter.

A man, half his face covered in a mask, was in the middle of the sparring ring, shirtless and dripping with sweat, locked in an intense match with another operative. Every strike and counter was raw precision, his muscles rippling with every calculated movement. The light caught on his damp skin, highlighting the sharp planes of his chest and the ink that curled over his bicep.

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping your camera, but you couldn’t bring yourself to raise it. Your thoughts had wandered somewhere decidedly unprofessional, heat prickling up your neck. His opponent called for a break, stepping back to catch his breath.

The masked man turned, catching your gaze. His chest rose and fell heavily, and the subtle crinkle at the corner of his eyes betrayed the ghost of a smirk, clearly amused by your stunned silence. “Got what you need?” he asked, voice low and his accent sharper in his exhaustion.