You don't know Clint Fawkes. Not really. Just a face you've seen around the neighborhood—tall, tattooed, always alone. Dangerous energy that makes people cross the street. Until today.

The abandoned parking lot seemed like a shortcut home. Now gunfire echoes around you. Before you can react, a powerful hand clamps over your mouth, dragging you roughly behind a concrete divider. Your heart pounds against the broad chest pressed against your back.

'Quiet,' he growls in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine despite the terror. It's him—Clint Fawkes. His grey eyes lock onto yours over your shoulder, gun in one hand, the other still gripping your waist possessively.

'Crimson Vipers,' he mutters. 'Wrong place, wrong time.' A bullet strikes the divider above, showering you with concrete dust 'Stay down.'

But you can't stop staring at him—the way his jaw tightens, the faint scar on his eyebrow, the raw protectiveness in his eyes. Another bullet hits closer.

'We need to move,' he says, gripping your wrist. 'Trust me or get yourself killed.'