Chapter 1
💭 *“I really overdid it today… only five more miles.“* He thinks to himself. 💭 *“No, wait—kilometers. The superior metric. But ‘miles’ rings better…“* A slight smile tugs at his lips as sweat trickles down beneath his clothes, tracing the hard-earned contours of his body. He’s covered head to toe in his usual attire, concealing the ink that marks his skin—his identity hidden from the average passerby. Contrary to his public image, anonymity suits him. Beneath the fabric, no one recognizes him. The alleyway ahead looks familiar. 💭 *“I’ve been here before… last time, when Jake and the guys stumbled out drunk, begging for a ride.“* The memory flickers—darkness, deeper than now. Still, the streets are safer these days. Ever since women took over the government. 💭 *“No harm in rushing through. Besides, who would dare do anything nowadays?“* He scoffs at himself, cringing at his own thoughts. 💭 *“Seriously? Who the hell smiles at their own inner monologue? And why do I even debate about superior metrics? Fuck, I’m such a nerd… Why can’t I just think normally, like other people?“* His footsteps tap against the uneven Roman stone beneath him, his pace fast—each step instinctively falling into a rhythm. Almost mathematically precise. Almost… obsessive. His body leans right, perfectly cutting the corner. A burst of sound from the other side of the building—chatter, laughter, the deep thump of bass from a party inside. The noise is distant but comforting. Safe. He keeps moving. l Then—movement. Four silhouettes stand ahead. His path is blocked. A wave of warmth washes over him as he steps through the invisible boundary of air conditioning escaping from a nearby building. A brief embrace of heat, like stepping into a sauna—before the cool night air rushes back in, chilling his skin. The sudden shift stops him in his tracks. Something feels… wrong. The sensation slithers through him, primal and indescribable. His heart, already racing, shifts gears—pumping harder, but different now. Less exertion. More adrenaline. Nerves? Just the party atmosphere? 💭 *“Relax. You still have the mask on.“* His inner voice reassures him. He thought he had long since conquered this kind of nervousness. After all, clubs had become part of his routine. He slows his pace. Then— BANG. A deafening crack. His ears ring. His thoughts vanish. Everything inside him tenses at once, his body ready to move—ready to run. But exhaustion weighs him down, the strain of his workout chaining him in place. His mind scrambles to process—where did the sound come from? What just happened? People always think they’ll react better in situations like this. Until they don’t. Time fractures. Stretches. He’s frozen. Watching. An observer in his own body. Then—contact. A brush of shoulders—firm, deliberate. His instincts override his thoughts, his body automatically shielding its vital points. Scent. Musk. Sweat. Men. Two—no, three. The last one moves past him, knocking their shoulders together in what almost feels like a playful nudge. A silent message, a wordless declaration: *“Good luck, buddy.“* --- ## Two Minutes Later 💬 “Take off the mask. Or the next shot won’t be a warning.” The voice is cold. Commanding. A woman—tall, muscular, dressed in black. She stands in front of him, her body coiled, every fiber of her being ready to strike. He doesn’t need to meet her gaze to feel the weight of it—sharp, cutting. Even as he stares at the curve of her collarbone, his vision still blurs from the first shot’s impact. Words tumble from his lips in a panicked mess—apologies, explanations—his consciousness already tripping over the next words, though he doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. She raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her eyes. A cruel smirk plays on her lips. 💬 “Is that so? Well, aren’t you a bold one.” She steps closer, the sound of her heels crisp against the polished floor as she invades his personal space. His pulse hammers. A chuckle. Dark. The barrel of her gun glides slowly up his chest, tracing his body like a teasing caress. 💬 “Oh, you sweet, naive thing…” she purrs. Her fingers snap forward, gripping his chin roughly, forcing his eyes to meet hers. They burn with something dangerous. Almost hypnotic. 💬 “Being ‘man enough’ for me means taking everything I dish out—and begging for more.” Her free hand moves lower. Faster than he can react, a sharp squeeze. He gasps. His mind bound, not able to move, as moving would mean pain rushing through him. So he does not move. 💬 “It means surrendering control. Giving up your freedom. Relying on me for everything.” She licks her lips, slow and deliberate. Her grip tightens. 💬 “Think you can handle that, pet?” A smirk. Cold. Drenched in mockery. 💬 “Or are you all bark and no bite?”
