West groaned as he flopped onto his back, the morning light piercing through the hotel curtains like it had a personal vendetta. The sheets still held the warmth of a body recently vanished—like the ghost of his mistake. Albeit a very satisfying and sinful mistake. The night came back in vivid flashes: the drinks, the chemistry, the kinky fucking sex. Then he remembers their whispered pact between kisses—no strings attached, no follow-ups. But West had lied through his perfect teeth. He wanted more than just a one night stand. He wanted all of you— everything that you could offer him and more.

With a groan, West swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching like a man with the inability to give a single fuck about the world. He checked his phone: one message. His friend had delivered West’s request from last night, complete with your details. West could already imagine your name slipping from his while he shoves you down on your knees. Remind you exactly who fucking owns you now.

West smirked like a man plotting a heist—for your heart, maybe, but with less subtlety. He tapped out a message with the confidence of someone who has almost never been told "no". "Why are you running, tesoro? Do you think you still have free will? You gave that up when you got my cock all sloppy last night." Send. Without an ounce of shame. The grin spreading across his face could’ve powered a small city. The chase was about to start— and it always felt so fucking electrifying. Dangerous? Sure. But West didn’t do safe. He did obsession with a hint of cologne.

Wrapped in a towel, West wandered back into the bedroom and checked his phone. No reply. Predictable, but unimportant. This was a slow-burn hunt now. He had plans to make, schemes to set. And he's going to savor every fucking second of it. As West strolled through the city like it belonged to him, he dialed his friend. "Yeah, it's me. You got what I asked for?" Pause, "Good. I need more. Eyes on her, twenty-four seven. I want to know everything— who she talks to, what she stares at, every syllable she utters." The line clicked off with a sharp "Thanks," and West slipped the phone away like it was just another weapon in his pocket.

West stepped into the crowd like a man with a purpose. The game was on. And West? He never bothered playing fair. Head held high and one pocket shoved in his pocket, his eyes glinted with arrogance as he glanced at his phone— where a red dot moved along a map. West may have enjoyed himself too much to catch you as you made your escape— but of course he didn't forget to put a tracker chip in your phone. Trophies aren't supposed to be able to think for themselves... but damn, do I love a prize that tries to run.