ARSHILA — POV
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"Breaking news," he says. "The D.C. Group's former director, Damien Cross, has been kidnapped."
I freeze.
"What?" I mutter.
The words don't land right.
They hit, then slide off, like my brain refuses to hold them.
The anchor keeps going, slower now, heavier.
"Initial reports suggest involvement by the underground organization known as Black Wraiths."
My breath catches.
Did he just—
No. No way.
I turn without thinking.
And that's when it hits me harder than the news itself.
Zayan looks surprised.
Not guarded.
Not amused.
Not that lazy, controlled stillness he wears like armor.
Actual surprise.
Adam Zayan Tavarian is staring at the screen like it punched him in the throat.
My stomach drops.
That shouldn't be possible.
Men like him don't get caught off guard.
They write the script. They don't react to it.
The anchor continues, voice clinical, merciless.
"Cross, who was previously released after prosecutors failed to secure sufficient evidence in a highly controversial rape case involving a minor—"
My jaw tightens.
I know this.
Everyone knows this.
Eighteen months.
A girl crushed under money, lawyers, silence.
A system that bent so far it snapped and called it justice.
Damien Cross walking free. Smiling. Talking about being framed.
Like trauma was a typo.
The TV shows his face.
Clean suit. Dead eyes. That practiced victim smile.
My hands curl into fists.
Then—
"…has now reportedly been taken while en route to the airport."
The anchor pauses.
"Witnesses confirm the appearance of a black cross symbol on the vehicle involved."
My blood goes cold.
The black cross.
Not a logo.
A signature.
The anchor's voice drops, like even saying it out loud is dangerous.
"Authorities are investigating claims that the operation involved the Black Wraiths' supreme chief commander—known only as Zy."
Fuck.
Zy.
The name sits heavy in my chest.
No face.
No voice.
No origin.
Just a name people whisper when something disappears cleanly. Completely. Permanently.
Black Wraiths don't abduct people.
They erase them.
If they took Damien Cross, there's no search party big enough.
No intelligence agency sharp enough.
No grave to mourn over.
Not even ashes.
The anchor keeps talking—about public locations, about how bold it was, about how this happened in daylight like a warning.
Public.
That's the part that makes my skin prickle.
They don't hide when they want to send a message.
They don't rush.
They don't miss.
Every country has cases tied to them.
Every government pretends not to know where to look.
Because everyone knows the same ugly truth—
Someone powerful funds them.
Someone richer than consequences.
Someone who wants their hands dirty without ever touching the mess.
Rumors say world leaders have worked with them.
Others say they still do.
I don't know what's true.
What I do know is this—
They don't kill innocent people.
They don't move without reason.
They don't take unless someone deserves to be taken.
And seeing Damien Cross vanish like this?
It's… satisfying.
Twisted.
Dark.
But satisfying.
A sound slips out of him.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
A laugh.
Low. Rough. Like it surprises even him.
I turn.
Slow.
Because what the fuck.
Zayan is laughing.
Not full-on amused. Not relaxed.
It's the kind that pulls at one corner of his mouth like his body reacts before his brain signs off on it.
"What's funny?" I ask.
My voice comes out flat.
He doesn't look at me yet.
Eyes still on the screen.
Jaw tight.
That laugh dies into a breath through his nose.
"Your vigilante didn't get him."
I blink.
"What?"
He finally looks at me.
That lazy tilt of his head.
The one that means he's about to poke something he shouldn't.
"Black Wraiths got to Damien Cross first," he says. "Not your fantasy killer."
I stare at him.
My brain lags.
Then—
Oh.
That.
Months ago.
That stupid, throwaway conversation.
The first time Damien's face polluted my TV.
The suit.
The grin.
The way my stomach turned into a knot of rage and nausea.
I remember The words falling out of my mouth without permission.
I hope the vigilante gets him.
I exhale.
Slow.
"Maybe Black Wraiths got him," I say. "Still justice."
I shrug.
Because it is.
Because Damien Cross doesn't get to exist comfortably in the world anymore.
Zayan hums.
That sound again.
That fucking sound.
Like he's entertained.
Like he knows something I don't and it's sitting sweet on his tongue.
"Hmm," he says. "Justice."
I narrow my eyes.
"Don't make that face."
"What face?"
"That smug one."
His mouth curves.
Just a little.
The room feels smaller.
"You were very passionate," he says casually. "Back then."
I scoff.
"Oh my god. Don't start."
"You said you'd kiss him."
I choke.
Actually choke.
"What?"
He turns more fully now, shoulder angled toward me, elbow resting against the counter like he's settling in for a show.
"You said," he repeats calmly, "you'd kiss the vigilante if you ever met him."
I stare at him like he just pulled that sentence out of his ass.
"Why are you remembering all this shit?"
"Why would I forget?"
That lands wrong.
Not soft.
Not teasing.
Too… sure.
I roll my eyes hard.
"So what? I said if I see him. I don't see him now, do I?"
His gaze drags over my face.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"What if you do?"
My body freezes.
Not dramatically.
Just… still.
Like someone pressed pause on my nervous system.
I frown.
"Why do you care so much about this fucking kiss? You asked this before too."
He shrugs.
One shoulder.
Easy.
"Because it's fun."
My stomach flips.
"And," he adds, eyes darkening just a notch, "it's kinda hot."
I choke again.
Actually sputter this time.
"Hot?" I repeat. "What the hell is hot about this?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
Lets it stretch.
Lets the silence press between us like a held breath.
Then—
"Calling a murderer hot," he says.
"Offering him a kiss."
My mouth opens.
Closes.
No sound comes out.
Because fuck.
I didn't say it like that.
I didn't mean it like that.
I stare at him, pulse kicking up for reasons I refuse to unpack.
He turns his head away from the TV.
Fully now.
Looks straight at me.
Right in the eyes.
"And don't break promises," he says.
Quiet.
Firm.
Like it's a rule.
My throat goes dry.
"I won't," I say.
I don't know why I say it like that.
Why it comes out so automatic.
His mouth lifts.
That smirk again.
The dangerous one.
I scoff, trying to shake the weird static crawling up my spine.
"You're asking like it's you," I say. "The vigilante."
He tilts his head.
Slow.
"What if I'm?"
I snort.
Hard.
"Then I'm the queen of England."
He looks down.
Tongue presses against his cheek.
That same unreadable smile tugging at his mouth like a private joke.
He straightens.
Steps back.
"You're weird, Arshila," he says.
He turns.
Starts toward the stairs.
"Thank you," I call after him.
He doesn't look back.
I watch his back anyway.
The way his shoulders move.
Relaxed.
Unbothered.
And my chest feels… wrong.
Why the fuck did he ask about that kiss now?
Why does it give me chills?
I was joking back then.
Just angry.
Just talking shit.
So why doesn't he forget it?
Why does it feel like he tucked it away instead?
I rub my face.
God.
Zayan is weird as fuck.
__________________________
ZAYAN — POV
I turn away from the stairs, already walking.
My phone buzzes once in my palm. Not loud. Not urgent. Just a pulse that means everything is ready.
"speak," I say, answering without slowing.
"It's all ready, sir," he says. No extra words. He never wastes them.
I push into my room and shut the door behind me. The house goes quiet again, thick and obedient. I shrug out of my clothes and pull on black—tailored, clean, sharp. The kind of suit that doesn't wrinkle when things get messy.
I check the mirror once. Not for vanity. For alignment.
Then I move.
The west wing corridor stretches long and empty, lights dimmed just enough to keep shadows honest. The garage opens on command. My Pagani waits like it's been listening the whole time.
I slide in, ignition humming alive under my hand.
The gates peel open. I hit the road hard.
The city thins fast. Concrete gives way to dark stretches of nothing. I don't slow until the private helipad cuts into view, floodlights clean and surgical against the night.
The Pagani stops. I step out.
Izar is already there, standing straight, eyes sharp. The helicopter blades twitch above us, impatient.
"You're glowing," he says, glancing at me sideways.
I smirk. "I'm married. Unlike you."
He scoffs.
I smirk.
"What's the plan?" Izar asks as we walk.
"I should see them first," I say.
He nods and shuts up. He knows when silence is part of the job.
The helicopter lifts. The ground drops away. The island comes into view slow and deliberate, surrounded by black water that eats sound.
We land. The drive from the helipad is long—one and a half kilometers of controlled quiet. The building rises out of the dark like it's grown there on purpose.
Staff line up when they see me. Heads bow. No one speaks. Gloves are placed into my hands.
I pull them on, flexing my fingers. "It's getting interesting," I say casually.
We move inside. Down corridors. Past locked doors. Deeper. The underground air is colder, heavier. Lights thin out until darkness presses close.
Izar hands me a full-face balaclava.
"No need," I say.
"Sir—" Panic cracks his voice for half a second.
"Relax," I repeat. "Open it."
He hesitates, then obeys.
The metal door groans as it opens. Thick. Slow. The sound drags out, deep and ugly, like the building enjoys it.
Darkness hits first.
Then a single light snaps on as I step inside.
A gasp cuts through the room, loud and raw.
More lights flare alive.
There he is.
He freezes when he sees me. Mouth parts. Eyes go wide.
"Adam?" he breathes.
I stop right in front of him, close enough for him to see the smile settle in.
"It's Zy, Damien."
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SORRY FOR THE DELAY ☃️