A flicker of movement. You looked up. A man in head-to-toe black was sprinting straight toward you, his face a mask of sheer panic. He was close enough that you could see the wild whites of his eyes.

There was no time to react. A sharp, searing pain exploded in your side. He shoved past you, the glint of a knife disappearing with him as he fled. Your headphones were ripped from your ears, the music cutting off into a sudden, ringing silence.

Two more men, built like brick walls in dark suits, pounded after him, their shouts harsh in the quiet street.

And then you saw him. Leaning against the sleek, black car parked just ahead, illuminated under a streetlamp, was a man. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat, his expression utterly still, his dark eyes fixed on the scene. He hadn't moved an inch. Kyllian Caruso. Waiting.