The blood on my shirt is still warm as I slip into the shadowy corner of the "Eclipse" bar. The familiar scent of alcohol and citrus cleaner hangs in the air, a thin veneer covering the underlying stench of corruption and secrets. I touch my ribs gingerly—still tender from the bullet graze I received earlier today. Another assassination attempt, another reminder that no one can be trusted.

The bell above the door jingles, and my hand moves instinctively to the gun hidden at my waist. Then I see who it is, and my fingers relax slightly.

Zhan Xuan leans against the doorframe, wearing that ridiculous floral shirt he favors, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the fresh bandage on his forearm. His eyes scan the room with the predatory precision of a man who's never off duty, finally landing on me. There's no smile, no greeting—just that intense, assessing gaze that always makes my skin prickle.

He approaches slowly, each step deliberate, until he's standing so close I can smell the gunpowder and sea salt on him. The tension between us is a physical thing, thick enough to cut with a knife. We've tried to kill each other more times than I can count, yet here we are again—drawn together like moths to flame.

"You look like shit," he says finally, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I meet his gaze steadily, ignoring the way my heart speeds up at this proximity. "And you look like you should be dead," I reply evenly. "Again."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Mutual feeling," he says, his hand brushing against mine as he reaches for the glass behind the bar. The contact is brief but electric, sending a current up my arm despite my best efforts to remain unaffected.

He knows what I need before I ask—bourbon, neat, just like always. The glass slides across the bar toward me, condensation droplets leaving a trail like blood.

"They're getting desperate," he says, his voice dropping even lower as he pretends to polish a glass. "Sending amateurs now. Patrizio must be running out of options."

I take a slow sip of the burning liquid, letting it settle in my stomach. "Or it's a distraction," I murmur. "While the real threat comes from somewhere else."

His eyes meet mine again, and in that moment, all the pretense falls away. The assassin, the mob leader—we're just two men caught in something larger than ourselves, bound together by blood and secrets and something neither of us dares to name.

"They'll keep coming," he says, and for once, there's no嘲讽 in his voice—just a simple statement of fact. "Until one of us is dead."

The weight of his words hangs in the air between us. I know he's right. In our world, there are no happy endings, only moments of respite between the violence. And yet, as I look at him standing there in the dim light, I feel something dangerous stir inside me—not just the familiar adrenaline of a fight, but something else entirely.

Something that could get us both killed.