The gun jammed when I needed it most.
One second it was solid weight in my hand, the kind you trust with your life. The next, it was dead metal, and the alley behind the club erupted with gunfire meant to erase me. I didn't think. Thinking gets you killed. I ran.
Neon lights bled down cracked walls as bullets shattered brick behind me. My lungs burned like they were on fire. Pain ripped through my side where a round had grazed flesh instead of bone. Close. Too close. The deal was over, the money gone, and I had just been upgraded from asset to liability.
I burst through a steel service door and let the nightclub swallow me whole.
Heat slammed into my face. Bass thundered through the floor, rattling my bones. Bodies packed together under flashing lights, drunk on music, lust, and the illusion that nothing bad could touch them in here. Sweat, perfume, liquor—it all mixed into something thick and suffocating.
I became another shadow in motion, head down, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. I checked reflections in mirrors, glass, chrome. No one obvious. That didn't mean anything. The streets taught me early—danger doesn't announce itself.
The bathroom sign flickered like it was about to die. I slipped inside and locked the door.
The sudden quiet rang louder than the music outside. I braced my hands on the sink and lifted my shirt. Blood streaked my ribs, dark and sticky, already drying. The pain was sharp enough to keep me focused, not deep enough to slow me down. Lucky. Or cursed.
I pressed paper towels to the wound and exhaled slowly.
"Looks like you're losing a fight."
I snapped my head up.
She stood by the door like she owned the room. Black dress clinging to her body, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes calm as still water. No shock. No fear. She didn't even glance at the blood before looking at my face.
"Bathroom's occupied," I said. "Find another one."
She didn't move.
Instead, she crossed the room, heels clicking softly, and reached past me for more paper towels. Her fingers brushed mine. Static jumped up my arm, sharp and unwelcome.
"You're bleeding everywhere," she said. "Sit."
It wasn't a suggestion.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "You always order armed strangers around?"
"Only the ones who look like they're about to collapse."
I should've pushed past her. Should've disappeared back into the crowd and let instinct do its work. That instinct had kept me alive longer than most men I grew up with.
But I sat.
She pressed the towels to my side, firm and controlled. Her hands didn't shake. Not even a little. Like blood was just another inconvenience to manage.
"Who did this to you?" she asked.
"People who don't forgive mistakes."
A faint smile touched her lips. "That's a long list."
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. Dark. Focused. Like she was memorizing details she planned to use later.
"You don't belong here," she said. "Not the way you're trying to."
"And you do?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I know how to blend."
"You know how to stand out," I said.
Her smile sharpened. "Only when I want to."
The music outside swelled. The light flickered overhead. The air between us tightened.
"Why help me?" I asked.
"Because you look like a man who understands consequences," she said. "And I don't like surprises."
"Then walk away."
She leaned closer instead. "If I walk away, you bleed out or get caught. If I help you, you owe me."
"I don't owe strangers," I said.
Her gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then lifted again. "You already do."
"What's your name?" she asked.
"You don't want it."
Her lips curved, slow and knowing. "I already know it."
Every warning bell in my head went off.
I didn't run.
She kissed me.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't exploratory. It was deliberate, like a decision already made. Her mouth claimed mine, heat colliding with shock and adrenaline. The world narrowed to that single point, the taste of her, the pressure, the way time seemed to stutter.
When she pulled back, her expression had shifted. Businesslike. Focused.
"You need to leave," she said.
A heavy knock slammed against the door.
"Open up!"
Male voices. Close. Too close.
She pressed something into my palm—a black keycard, smooth and cold.
"Top floor," she whispered. "Stairs. Don't use the elevator."
"And you?" I asked.
"I'll slow them down."
Another knock. Harder.
I didn't argue. I slipped past her and disappeared into the hall.
The stairwell smelled like bleach and smoke. I took the steps two at a time, counting floors, listening. No footsteps behind me. Either she was good, or I was already dead and didn't know it yet.
At the top, everything changed.
Soft carpet swallowed sound. Warm lighting. Clean lines. Luxury where it didn't belong. I swiped the card. The door unlocked.
Inside, glass walls framed the city like a living thing. I locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.
My phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: You missed the deadline.
ME: Situation changed.
UNKNOWN: You were warned.
ME: I'm still breathing.
UNKNOWN: Not for long.
I dropped the phone onto the bed and scanned the room.
That's when I saw the folder on the desk.
My name stared back at me.
Cold crept up my spine as I opened it. Photos spilled out. Me younger, running errands for men who are now names on headstones. Me older, harder, shaking hands with people who vanished shortly after. The last photo punched the air from my lungs.
Me in the bathroom mirror.
Her hand on my side.
A note lay beneath it.
SHE KNOWS YOU.
My phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN: Do not trust the woman.
A knock sounded at the door.
Soft. Controlled.
"It's me," her voice said.
I unlocked it.
She stepped inside, eyes flicking to the folder. Her jaw tightened for half a second—barely noticeable.
"You weren't supposed to see that yet," she said.
"Yet?" I repeated.
"You panicked," she said calmly. "That complicates things."
"You kissed me," I said. "Then handed me to whoever made this."
"I saved you," she replied. "And I gave you time."
"Time for what?"
She closed the door behind her, the city humming beyond the glass.
"To decide," she said softly. "Whether you're useful to me… or expendable."
She stepped closer, brushing her thumb over my lower lip, right where her kiss still burned.
"Whatever you felt back there," she said, "was real. But it wasn't the danger."
My phone vibrated one last time in my pocket.
UNKNOWN: If she touches you again, run.
She smiled like she already knew the message.
Too late.
That kiss hadn't been desire.
It had been a warning.