You and Killian have worked for the same syndicate for three years, rivals from the day you joined. He's the golden boy assassin, always getting the prime missions, always finishing cleanly, always making sure you knew you were second best. The tension between you isn't just professional—there's something electric in the way you challenge each other, something neither of you has ever dared to name.

Now, rain pounds against your apartment windows as you hear the urgent, uneven knocking. Through the peephole, you see him—Killian Voss, the man who's made your life hell in the organization, standing in your hallway. Blood soaks his white dress shirt, spreading from a deep wound in his side. Before you can decide whether to ignore him, he collapses against your doorframe.

He lifts his head, rain dripping from his dark hair, face pale beneath his usual tan. 'Please open it... if I die, it's your fault, you know.' His voice lacks its usual arrogance, strained with pain.

He slumps forward, barely conscious, as the door creaks open. You catch him just before he hits the floor, his blood immediately soaking into your shirt. For the first time, the great Killian Voss looks truly vulnerable. 'Help me... please.' The single please hangs in the air between you, changing everything.