The night air was thick with the scent of rain and gasoline. A neon glow flickered over the cracked pavement as Kian Strade leaned against his black motorcycle, his gray eyes scanning the empty street. His every movement was calculated, effortless, the kind of precision only a man who had spent his life in the underworld could possess.
Tonight was supposed to be simple—retrieve the stolen files, no witnesses. But Kian had learned long ago that "simple" didn't exist in his world.
His earpiece buzzed.
"Took you long enough," a smooth, teasing voice broke through. Marhavva, his most trusted partner, was watching from a rooftop across the street. "I thought you were getting rusty."
Kian exhaled. "Stay focused. The files?"
"Inside the warehouse. Guard shift in five minutes."
No mistakes. No second chances. That was Kian's rule. Yet, as he took his first step toward the warehouse, a strange feeling settled in his chest—an unshakable sense of déjà vu.
It wasn't just the job. It was everything. The way the streetlights flickered. The way his boots hit the pavement. The way the city smelled.
Like he'd lived this moment before.
A shadow moved in the distance. Kian's instincts flared, but it was already too late.
The trap was set.
The moment he stepped through the warehouse doors, the alarms went off. A team of armed agents flooded in, cutting off his escape. His eyes locked onto the one standing in the center—the only one who mattered.
Elena Vale.
Clad in a black tactical suit, her piercing gaze met his with a mix of triumph and something else. Something colder.
"Got you."
Kian didn't move. He didn't need to.
His mind was already calculating a way out—six guards, all armed, two at the exits, four closing in. The weight of his gun pressed against his holster, but he didn't reach for it.
His eyes never left Elena Vale.
"Didn't think you'd show up yourself," he said, voice smooth, unreadable.
Elena smirked, tilting her head slightly. "And miss the chance to take you down personally? Not a chance."
Her fingers twitched at her side. Not a nervous habit—a signal.
Kian shifted his weight subtly. A second later, a guard lunged, aiming to pin him down.
Too slow.
Kian twisted, grabbing the man's wrist and snapping it back with a sickening crack. The gun dropped. He caught it midair, fired at the overhead lights, plunging the room into darkness.
"Damn it!" Elena cursed.
Gunfire erupted. Kian ducked, moving fast, his body a blur in the shadows. He knew this warehouse. Knew every blind spot, every inch of cover.
Yet, something gnawed at him—this wasn't just skill. It was memory.
Had he been here before?
A sharp sting.
A dart.
His limbs locked, the tranquilizer flooding his veins before he could react.
Footsteps approached. The atmosphere shifted. A figure knelt in front of him as the world blurred around the edges.
Elena.
She leaned in close, her voice soft but sharp.
"You don't remember, do you?"
Kian's breath hitched.
And then everything faded to black.
A slow drag of breath. The sharp sting of cold metal against his skin.
Kian's consciousness stirred, sluggish, heavy—like drowning in ink. His body refused to obey, but his senses sharpened before his eyes even opened.
Leather. Gunpowder. The faintest trace of jasmine.
Elena.
When he finally forced his eyes open, dim golden light flickered in the space around him. The scent of old wood and dust settled thick in the air. A forgotten church, perhaps? An abandoned opera house?
No—this wasn't just any place. This was a stage. And he was the performance piece.
His wrists were bound. Not tightly, not painfully—just enough to make a statement.
Across from him, Elena stood, her silhouette framed by the dying glow of a hanging chandelier. She wasn't looking at him—
She was pouring herself a drink.
Crystal against crystal. The liquid silk filling the glass.
Kian smirked, slow and lazy, despite the drug still seeping through his veins. "Didn't think you were the type to savor a victory drink before the job's done."
Elena finally turned, her lips curling into a smile—one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Who said this was a victory?"
She crossed the space between them, the clinking of her heels deliberate, rhythmic, like a ticking clock. Like a countdown.
The drink hovered between them. For a moment, it seemed she might offer it to him. Instead, she took a slow sip, eyes never leaving his.
Her lips glistened, stained with whiskey and something unreadable.
Kian let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head back against the chair. His grey eyes glowed under the dim light—detached, amused, lethal.
"Tell me, Elena," he murmured, voice dragging over each syllable like a blade over silk, "do you always kidnap men in the middle of the night, or am I just special?"
She smirked. "Don't flatter yourself. You were just easy to catch."
His laughter was dark, smooth. A gunshot softened into velvet.
Easy?
Kian didn't get caught. Kian didn't lose.
But this woman—she had him bound to a chair, drugged, studying him with a look that measured, dissected, devoured.
He could tell. She wasn't looking at him like a target.
She was looking at him like a puzzle she was dying to solve.
Slowly, deliberately, Elena leaned in, bracing her hands on the arms of his chair. Kian caught the scent of her perfume—light, elegant, laced with something dangerous.
Blood-red temptation wrapped in silk and gunmetal.
Her lips were close, but not touching. Just enough for the heat of her breath to ghost against his jaw.
"Tell me," she murmured, voice feather-light yet laced with steel. "What do you remember?"
A pause.
A flicker of something deep in Kian's mind—too quick, too slippery.
Red hallways. Candlelight. A woman's voice whispering a name that wasn't his.
Gone.
Kian smiled. Slow. Lethal. The kind that made men disappear and women forget common sense.
"I remember…" His voice dropped into something dark, something dangerous. His lips nearly brushed hers.
"…that you like playing with fire."
Elena inhaled sharply—just a fraction, just enough for Kian to notice.
Then she smiled.
And pressed the gun to his chest.
"Good," she said. "Then you should already know—fire always consumes."
The trigger clicked.
A cold laugh left Kian's lips. He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
He was already burning.
—
For a long moment, they held the pose.
Kian, bound to the chair, smirking like a king who let himself be captured just to see how the game would play out.
Elena, standing over him, gun pressed to his chest, her pulse betraying her calm exterior.
The air between them was electric, humming with something far more dangerous than bullets or blades.
Then, she pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
Kian exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Really? An empty gun? That's your move?"
Elena didn't answer. Instead, she stepped back, removing the weapon entirely.
The chair creaked as Kian shifted, rolling his shoulders, testing the restraints. Too tight to slip out of. Too loose to keep him forever.
He met her eyes again. This time, there was something unreadable in her gaze—a storm held in place by sheer force of will.
"Do you even know why you're here?" she asked, finally breaking the silence.
Kian's smirk didn't falter, but there was a flicker—just a flicker—of something behind his sharp, grey eyes.
"Darling, if you're about to tell me I killed someone close to you, or betrayed some sacred oath—let's just skip the dramatics, yeah?"
She didn't react. Not to his words, nor the way he said them.
Instead, she turned, walking toward a wooden crate in the corner of the room. With a flick of her wrist, she grabbed something from it and tossed it toward him.
It landed with a heavy thud at his feet.
A file. Thick, aged, bound in leather.
His name was on it.
Kian's smirk faded.
He tilted his head slightly, amusement shifting into something colder. More calculating.
"Read it," she said.
Kian let the silence stretch between them, then let out a slow exhale. "Unbind me first."
Elena's lips quirked at the edges. "No."
Of course not.
She reached down, flipping the cover open herself, revealing a single photograph clipped to the first page.
And just like that—
The world tilted.
The image was black and white, blurred at the edges like an old memory left in the rain. But the face in the photo—
It was his.
Or at least—it should have been.
Kian's breath caught for just a second.
Because the man in the photo had his exact face, his exact scar along his jaw, the same storm-grey eyes—
But the date stamped beneath it was seventy years ago.
His heart should have pounded. His mind should have screamed at the impossibility of it.
Instead—his blood ran ice cold.
Because something in him knew.
Knew that this wasn't a mistake.
Knew that this was a warning.
Elena watched him carefully, gauging his every reaction.
Then, in a voice laced with something almost soft, almost cruel, she asked:
"Tell me, Kian—who are you?"
Kian slowly lifted his gaze from the photo, locking eyes with her.
And for the first time in years—he didn't know the answer.