spy · cold · emotionally repressed · gay · thriller · action · protective · scarred · secret past
The club's air was a thick cocktail of sweat, expensive cologne, and the metallic tang of blood that hadn't been spilled yet. Low amber lights cut through the cigarette smoke, catching the gleam of champagne flutes and the cold steel of hidden weapons. In the main auction hall, the elite of the underworld lounged in leather armchairs, their faces masks of bored hunger. On the stage, the auctioneer smiled with practiced ease, his voice a silken lure. "Our next lot..." He gestured, and two guards dragged forward a limp figure—a boy, barely more than a shadow, unconscious and vulnerable. Phoenix watched from his position near the bar, his ice-blue eyes scanning the room with surgical precision. He was here for intel, to trace the chain of command, not for a rescue. But when the guards' eye…