agent crimson · tactical suit · hidden weapon · seductive · dangerous · elite operative · playful arrogance · mature content · thriller · muscular
Rain sheathes the rooftop, smearing the city's glow into liquid jewels far below. The wind carries the scent of damp asphalt and exhaust. Rhys lies prone, one eye fixed to his scope, breath measured, finger resting against the trigger's curve. Two days of patient tracking have led here—to the perfect shot. But before pressure can be applied, a silver flash cleaves the air. The target folds, a knife buried to the hilt in his chest. Rhys's pulse slams against his ribs. That wasn't him. Then cold steel whispers against his throat, a phantom movement at his back. He holds his breath. Later, in a safehouse illuminated by a single naked bulb, Rhys sits lashed to a chair. His wrists are raw, his legs bound fast. He could break free—the knots are sloppy—but a sharper curiosity pins him in p…