I reach the bottom.
Turn the corner.
And freeze.
Standing there—
Dressed in black gear, face hidden behind a balaclava—
Is the man I have been searching for.
The hallway light spills over him in sharp angles, catching the edges of his body in a way that makes him look less human and more like something carved out of shadow.
The black fabric clings to him perfectly, outlining every line of muscle without apology.
A tactical vest sits tight across his chest, straps cutting over his shoulders, dark gloves covering his hands like he has no intention of ever leaving fingerprints behind.
His pants are heavy, reinforced, built for movement, and everything about him screams control, precision, danger.
And in his hand—
A knife.
The blade catches the light just enough to glint.
Clean. Sharp. Real.
A scream claws up my throat.
It never comes out.
My heart drops so violently it feels like it hits the bottom of my stomach, my pulse slamming hard enough to make my vision blur for a second.
My legs go weak, useless, like they forgot how to hold me up, and I swear if I blink too hard I might just collapse right here in front of him.
"I heard you were looking for me."
His voice is low.
Familiar.
It slides through the air like something that already owns the room.
I take a step back.
Instinct.
Stupid.
Because I already know there is nowhere to go.
He starts walking toward me.
Slow.
Measured.
Every step deliberate, like he is not chasing me, not rushing, just closing the distance because he knows I am not escaping anyway.
The sound of his boots against the floor is soft, controlled, and somehow louder than anything else in the house right now.
My back hits the wall before I even realize how far I have moved.
He stops right in front of me.
Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him through the layers of black.
"What now, wife?"
The word hits harder than the knife.
I gasp, the sound sharp and uneven, my body pressing further into the wall like I can disappear into it.
"Who the fuck are you?" I demand, my voice shaking just enough to piss me off.
A quiet laugh leaves him.
Dark.
Amused.
"Is that supposed to be an insult?" he murmurs. "You've been digging so hard, and now you ask me that?"
My breath comes out uneven.
"You expect me to believe this is normal?" I snap back. "You walking around like some psycho in my house?"
His head tilts slightly, watching me like I am something interesting.
"Your house?" he repeats softly.
The knife spins once between his fingers.
Casual.
Effortless.
My throat tightens.
He takes one more step.
Too close.
The blade flashes.
Then it is at my neck.
Cold.
Still.
I choke on my breath, my body going completely rigid as the edge presses lightly against my skin, not cutting, not yet, but close enough that I can feel exactly what it could do.
"You look better like this," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. "Scared."
"Fuck you," I hiss, even as my body betrays me, trembling under him. "I'll expose you. I'll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are."
The pressure of the knife increases slightly.
Not enough to break skin.
Enough to remind me it can.
"How?" he asks softly. "Tell me how you plan to do that."
"I have proof," I shoot back, forcing the words out through the fear tightening my chest. "Enough to bury you. Enough to show the world you're not just some businessman playing dress-up. You're a killer. You're Zy."
The name hangs between us.
Heavy.
He laughs.
And this time it is worse.
Colder.
Darker.
"You think they'll believe you?" he asks. "Anyone can wear black. Anyone can hold a weapon. Does that make them what you think it does?"
I let out a breathless laugh of my own, even as my pulse keeps racing.
"Don't play smart with me," I snap. "I know it's you. I know what you are. You're not just some vigilante. You're the one running it all."
His head tilts again.
Studying.
Interested.
"Do you know why I like you?" he murmurs.
I glare at him.
"I don't care."
"This," he continues anyway, the knife still steady against my throat. "Even now, you're still fighting."
"I'm not scared of you," I lie.
His laugh is softer this time.
More dangerous.
"You should be."
"I won't fold to you," I spit. "I'll rip that mask off your face and let everyone see what kind of empire Tavarian is built on."
Something shifts.
Subtle.
Then his hand grabs my wrist.
Fast.
He turns me in one sharp motion, my body spinning before I can react, and suddenly my front hits the wall, my breath knocked out of me as he presses me there.
The knife returns to my throat.
From behind.
His body close.
Too close.
"If I'm a murderer," he murmurs against my ear, "then what does that make you?"
My breath stutters.
"I won't be," I force out. "Not after I hand you over."
The pressure disappears.
Suddenly.
He steps back.
Just like that.
"So," he says lightly, like we are discussing something casual, "you want to put me in prison."
"Yes."
The word comes out without hesitation.
He starts circling me slowly, the knife spinning lazily in his hand again, his steps quiet, controlled, his presence never leaving me even when he moves out of my direct line of sight.
"Then I'll give you a chance," he says.
Before I can react, his hand grabs my wrist again and yanks me forward.
Hard.
I slam into his chest.
Solid.
Unmoving.
The impact forces a sharp gasp out of me, my hands instinctively pressing against him, feeling the strength beneath the fabric, the heat, the reality of him.
His hand lifts.
Fingers brushing against my cheek.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"I hope you don't disappoint me," he murmurs.
Then he steps back.
The distance comes too fast.
Too sudden.
And just like that, he disappears into the darkness of the hallway.
Gone.
The space feels empty without him.
Too quiet.
My knees give out before I can stop them, my body sinking down as the adrenaline crashes through me all at once. My hands shake, my breath uneven, my skin still burning where the knife touched, where his hand held, where his body pressed against mine.
That was not the man I know.
That was something else.
Something far worse.
And the terrifying part is—
He did not hide it.
He showed it to me.
I don't realize I'm moving until I'm already halfway up the stairs, my feet hitting each step too fast, too uneven, like my body is trying to outrun something that is still standing right behind me.
The hallway feels longer than usual, darker, and when I reach my door, my hands fumble with the handle for a second before I finally shove it open and slip inside.
I lock it immediately.
The click sounds louder than it should.
My back presses against the door as my chest rises and falls hard, my breath coming out sharp and unsteady, like my lungs forgot how to work properly.
The silence in my room feels suffocating now, thick and heavy, and it takes me a few seconds to even push myself away from the door.
I walk to the mirror.
Slow.
Uncertain.
My reflection stares back at me, but it doesn't feel like me.
My eyes look wider. Darker.
My skin looks flushed.
And then I see it.
A faint redness around my throat.
Exactly where the blade had been.
My fingers lift slowly, brushing over the skin, and I swallow hard when the memory hits again, sharp and clear. The pressure. The cold edge. The way he held it there like it was nothing.
Like I was nothing.
My jaw tightens.
Because that question—
It comes back.
"If I'm a murderer, then what does that make you?"
My stomach twists.
"Fuck," I whisper under my breath, shaking my head like I can throw it out of my mind. "No."
My fingers curl into fists at my sides.
"I will expose you," I say to my reflection, my voice low but steady now. "I'll burn that entire fucking empire down if I have to."
My phone suddenly vibrates in my hand.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
The sound cuts through the room, sharp and constant, notifications piling up so fast it feels wrong. My brows pull together as I glance down, confusion flickering through me before I unlock the screen.
The notifications don't stop.
News alerts.
Messages.
Updates.
My heart starts beating faster again.
I tap one.
And the headline fills the screen.
"International Pop Sensation Ares Vance Reported Kidnapped Under Mysterious Circumstances."
My breath catches.
A cold realization slides down my spine.
My grip tightens around the phone.
And for the first time since he disappeared into the dark—
I understand exactly what he meant.
This is the chance.