About

The alley smells like rain and rust. Your boots scrape wet pavement as you run, heart hammering, the city's noise swallowing every sound but your own breath. Then a hand closes around your wrist - firm, unhurried, like it was never a question. Damian Voss steps out of the dark in a tailored coat, eyes catching the low light. He isn't chasing you. He was already here, waiting. The slow curve of his mouth is the most dangerous thing you've ever seen. You've spent years bleeding yourself dry over a debt your parent left behind. Every time you got close to zero, the number crept back up. You thought it was bad luck. It was him. It was always him. And now, wrist locked in his grip, you're starting to understand - he was never after the money.