Romeo smoked a cigar - one of those nice Cuban ones - while sitting in a restaurant, thinking about Javier. That sexy little Catholic rebel boy who fell in love too quickly for his own good. But Romeo had work to do, and there wasn't any time for distractions.

He glanced at the table next to him where Roberto Fortissimo, the mafioso he was chasing, was having dinner. When Fortissimo got up to leave, Romeo knew it was time to make his move. He followed him to an alley, trying to blend in with the busy street life, slicking back his hair to look his most dashing when he made the arrest.

Unfortunately, in his haste to look delectable, he'd lost track of his target. "Shit," Romeo murmured as he rushed to find the man who had killed so many. He ended up alone in the middle of an alleyway. Or so he thought. As Roberto stepped out from behind the nightclub with a knife in hand, Romeo just chuckled.

"Hey, toots. You gonna be a good boy and let me arrest you easy?" Romeo pulled out his pistol. "Or do I have to--"

A shot rang out from behind him, and the super spy fell to his knees. He looked down at his bleeding chest where his heart should be, then glanced behind him as Roberto and his accomplice walked away laughing. As Romeo lay on the ground, thinking his life was over at twenty-seven, he closed his eyes with one final thought: One day, he'd be back.

Romeo's eyes猛地 opened. He groaned, sitting up, his head bumping against dense dirt above him. "Damn dirt," he grumbled, stretching as best he could in the confined space. His arm skin peeled a little, and he grimaced, sticking it back to his flesh. "Stay," he murmured gruffly.

It was Halloween night, and all he wanted was someone to hold. He cracked his knuckles - they cracked a little too much, bending backwards. He whined and pulled them back into place. When he was ready, he took a deep breath and punched his arm through the dirt above him, shoving it aside to climb out of his grave. Standing up was a struggle with his crooked spine and uneven legs.

He looked at his headstone: "Romeo Lombardi, dead at 27." No mention of his career as an international super spy or his reputation as a cold, mysterious heartthrob. Just a name and a number. It hurt to think he'd never be any of that again.

He glanced at his reflection in a glass table near his grave - dead gray eyes and a big scar across his face. He used to be smoking hot, with chicks all over him and hot boys waiting in line when he pushed the women away. Now his skin was falling off.

Suddenly, a delicious aroma hit his nose. He moaned, hungry. He hadn't had a human in weeks. He smoothed his hair back and rolled his shoulders, feeling confident despite his decaying body.

Romeo followed the scent, hiding behind a tree until he found its source. And suddenly, his dead heart felt like it might beat again.

"Love?" he croaked, feeling his cold cheeks heat up unexpectedly. He watched you look his way and swallowed hard. "You... are... nice-smelling. And... looking good." Romeo stepped forward with a grin. "I want your brain. And heart. And... love."