It didn’t really matter how Feston Kaida saw him. But Bob’s words echoed in Feng Zhannuo’s mind, making him question whether he had been too careless this time. Letting an FBI agent get this close—no professional assassin would call that a good sign.

Maybe it was time to consider a more permanent solution. His hand dropped to his waist, brushing against the cold, familiar weight of his holstered gun. A gust of wind blew open his coat, revealing a glimpse of black leather. His deep blue eyes, as if reflecting the sky itself, churned with turbulent thoughts.

Feng Zhannuo knew full well that man wasn’t going to give up. Sooner or later, his cases would land on Feston’s desk. And when that happened…

He picked up his car and turned onto Roosevelt Street, driving along Riverside Avenue. The sleek black Porsche merged effortlessly into the traffic. No one would suspect that the man behind the wheel, so poised and handsome, was a contract killer. His destination? Michigan Avenue—Chicago’s city center and home to the FBI’s local headquarters.

“Never seen the boss this interested in a perp,” Jonathan muttered as he brewed coffee in the FBI office on the 18th floor—the exclusive domain of Special Task Unit ST. The team had been talking about the Ghost all morning. “Whoever that guy is, he better start praying no open case ever lands on the boss’s desk.”

His comment drew nods of agreement. They’d dealt with their share of high-profile criminals, but none had drawn this much personal attention from Feston.

Feston tapped the table. “Anything new on Lilith?” He downed his cold coffee, eyes fixed on Derrick.

“If she’s more than just a client to the Ghost, then their past should’ve overlapped. But I found no connections before this case,” Derrick reported. “One of our informants tipped us off to a bar called ‘Red Lips.’ Apparently, Lilith was seen talking to a tall, slim guy there. Not Adam. Possibly our Ghost.”

The database had no photos of Feng Zhannuo. All Derrick had was a rough sketch based on witness descriptions. “They said Lilith called him ‘Noi.’”

“Doesn’t matter what he’s called. I suspect our Ghost has Asian blood. Could be Japanese or Chinese,” Derrick continued. “Plenty of patrons remembered him, but everyone assumed he was white.”

He laid the sketch on the table. Boos and groans followed. Derrick ran a hand through his red hair, defensively adding, “It’s all I could do based on what we had.”

“Who drew this?” Feston’s frown deepened. The sketch was close—but it lacked soul. The man he remembered smiled with dangerous charm. His hair and general features were right, but the eyes were too narrow, the nose too flat, the mouth too stiff. It just didn’t capture him.

“Have it redrawn.” The command left no room for discussion.

“No way! This took me hours!” Derrick protested. “What am I even supposed to change?”

“Raise the corners of the mouth. Elongate the eyes. Get the expression right—don’t forget he’s a killer. You’ve all seen him. Show it.”

Nobody understood why Feston was so demanding. His voice was rougher than usual—maybe from a sleepless night or too many cigarettes. The tension in his tone made everyone nervous.

Derrick admitted defeat, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Feston rubbed his temples. That face—charming yet deadly—was burned into his memory. Compared to that, this sketch was garbage.

He tossed the pile of prints into the shredder.

Derrick watched hours of work get shredded. “If only I had the boss’s memory. All I remember is he was pale, tall, and lean. Honestly, with that face, he could sell his looks.”

“Could model if he wanted. That slim build is in style. It’s called intellectual chic. Get with it.”

Their team was all male—jokes about muscles and modeling flew easily. The tension lightened a little. Laughter and chatter filled the room. But Feston didn’t hear a word.

He had never remembered someone so clearly before. Not just the face—but the angle the wind lifted his tea-brown hair. The taste of lips and smoke, the trace of gunpowder still lingered on his tongue.

“Keep digging,” he ordered, grabbing his coat and heading out.

His car turned north, toward his apartment on the west end of the Loop.

“Hey, any of you know anything about the boss’s personal life?” Derrick asked.

“Guy must be loaded. Only way you live there,” Hans said, glancing enviously toward the high-rise skyline.

The North Side—wedged between the Chicago River and Lake Michigan—was home to some of the city's priciest real estate. For someone who had just transferred from New York, Feston’s immediate move into a luxury duplex raised more than a few eyebrows.

“…Last time I called him, a guy answered,” Jonathan added casually. “No idea who he was.”

Maybe a brother? But no, Feston was an only child. That left just one other possibility.

Feston’s apartment was quiet. He picked up the phone. “Will, get over here.”

“Ooh, missing me already? So rare for you to sound this desperate.”

Will didn’t ask what Feston needed. He was used to being summoned. Calling him a “lover” might’ve been a stretch—Feston had never promised him anything, never said he loved him.

After hanging up, Feston headed to the shower.

Ten minutes later, Will arrived. Before he could take off his coat, Feston pushed him onto the couch, kissing him hard.

His lips were clean. No gunpowder, no blood. Just heat.

Feston traced them with his fingers, searching. Will pushed his hand away.

“You look… off. What’s going on?”

Feston’s gaze darkened. He stared at Will’s lips with unsettling intensity.

“Didn’t you miss me? I mean, you actually called,” Will teased.

Before he could finish, Feston pressed against him. Clothes were yanked off. He was rarely this aggressive. Will was surprised—but secretly thrilled.

Across the street, a car idled in the shadow of a tree. A camera lens poked out from a half-cracked window, focused on Feston’s apartment.

Through a gap in the curtain, the view was clear. No waiting—just passion. On the living room couch, Feston and Will were already at it.

So that’s what you’re really like, huh? Feng Zhannuo muttered inside the car, watching through the lens. Feston’s hand slid under Will’s shirt. Desire contorted his face. The blond kid was hot—shoulder-length hair, a fit body. His shirt came off. Then his pants…

Earlier, Feng had passed Feston’s car outside the FBI building. He’d followed it here. Just ten minutes later, a young blond man entered the duplex. Their relationship was obvious.

Now, with Feston fully distracted, Feng Zhannuo grabbed his sniper rifle.

He attached the scope. As he aimed, he hesitated.

Through the lens, Feston was completely naked, standing by the window. His body was flawless—strong shoulders, firm thighs, short chestnut hair curled slightly in the light. He radiated heat, primal and powerful.

Will clung to his back, clearly in love. He nuzzled against Feston’s thigh, eyes filled with affection. If he saw Feston die before him… what kind of face would he make?

Feng smiled coldly, slowly cracking the car window. The black barrel merged with the shadows.

Sorry, Feston Kaida. If you hadn’t stood in my way, you could’ve had a good life with your pretty boy. But now…

You don’t deserve it! You don’t understand love. You don’t even know what it means!

Out of nowhere, Lilith’s final words echoed in his ears. Feng’s gaze wavered, something dark twisting in his gut. Why the hell was he thinking of a dead woman now?

Refocusing his breath, he steadied the scope again. The two men hadn’t moved to another room. This would be over soon.

He’d seen plenty of naked bodies before—dead and alive, men and women. Usually, he’d watch, wait, then squeeze the trigger.

This time was no different. Except—just as his finger tightened—

Feston turned his head.

Their eyes met through the scope.

For the first time ever, Feng found himself locked in a stare with his target. Was Feston really looking at him? No. Impossible. No man would stay alert during sex. No one could see him.

This had to be a trick of the light… right?