By the time the police arrived, Chuck and his crew had already been gone for more than ten minutes. The raucous night took on a sharper edge under the wail of sirens. Roadblocks went up, and every passing car was stopped for inspection. It was going to be a long night.

Completely unaware of the trouble they were bringing back with them, Chuck’s van pulled up near the commercial district.

They didn’t flee the city the way Chicago PD might have expected. Under the neon haze, the plain-looking van was unremarkable. The two passengers inside had been cooperative enough that no one bothered taping their mouths shut—just slipped black cloth bags over their heads.

They couldn’t see the road, but Von Janor and Faiston could sense the change in surroundings. Judging from the thump of bass and muffled voices, they’d been brought into a bar. The smell of smoke, liquor, and perfume hit them hard. Then everything went quiet.

When the hoods were finally pulled away, they were in what looked like a lounge—spacious, guarded by more than a dozen men lined up at the door. The human wall blocked any view of the outside and cut off any route of escape. From somewhere beyond came the pulse of a hard dance track.

“Boss, I thought we only needed one of ’em? What’s the extra for?” One of Chuck’s men sounded far more relaxed now that they were back on their turf. Von Janor and Faiston were dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

Chuck took a swig from his beer. “Adam didn’t waste much time finding a new flame after his last one died. If he doesn’t cooperate…” He jabbed a finger toward Faiston. “…we’ll give his new lover something to remember us by.”

The bottle came flying at Faiston’s head. He tilted away just in time; it smashed against the floor, shards slicing his cheek. Blood beaded along the cut as the room erupted in laughter.

“For the money!” someone shouted.

“For the money!” The toast was passed around with clinking bottles. Chuck lounged on the sofa with a woman in his arm, too pleased with himself to notice that his captives’ eyes held none of the fear he imagined.

The cut was nothing to Faiston. He quietly counted heads. Von Janor didn’t need to do anything—just sit there looking like he was worried for Faiston’s safety. That was enough to keep up appearances.

“Bad luck turned good luck,” Chuck said, tipping his beer toward the ceiling. “Our boys didn’t bleed for nothing. This is God’s payback—dropping him right in our laps.” He nudged Von Janor with the toe of his boot. “Your turn. You want to stay breathing, you know what to do.”

A heavy safe was hauled in—a hulking, half-man-tall thing that sank into the carpet. The moment his crew saw it, their eyes lit up. It was Adam’s safe, packed with stacks of cash. All they had to do was get it open.

Chuck had pulled it from Adam’s hideout during a police sweep, but without the code, it was useless. Explosives would risk destroying whatever was inside. Just as he was considering hiring a locksmith, fate delivered Adam’s “boyfriend” right to him. Much safer than bringing in a stranger.

“You brought me here to open that?” Von Janor asked, Faiston still motionless behind him.

“I hear Adam’s into some guy lately. That’s you, right? Better tell me the code, or…” Chuck’s voice trailed off with a click as he chambered a round. “…I’ll put a few holes in him first.”

The gun’s muzzle pressed toward Faiston.

“What exactly was your relationship with Adam William?” Faiston asked suddenly—not to Chuck, but to the ghost behind him.

Von Janor knew he was fishing for intel but didn’t care. “Exactly what they say. We slept together.”

The bluntness made Chuck nod approvingly. “Good. Now—give me the code.” He slammed the butt of his gun into Von Janor’s head.

Blood ran warm down his temple, dripping onto his collar. Head bowed, he let the shadow hide the faint, chilling curl of his lips. “And if I don’t know it?”

“Then you’re dead!” Two shots tore into the carpet by Faiston’s side, the air scorched where the bullets landed. One of Chuck’s men stepped forward. “Don’t play dumb. Next time, it won’t be the floor. You really want your boyfriend full of holes?”

“No more talking,” Chuck growled. “Step aside—I’ll make him listen.”

A third shot rang out, aimed for Faiston’s leg—

But Faiston moved. In one fluid motion, he was on his feet. No blood, no limp. “Next time you take hostages, don’t let them sit back-to-back.”

The bullet punched harmlessly into the floor. At some unseen moment, Faiston had slipped free of his wrist ties. He rolled up his sleeves while Von Janor dropped the cut ropes—severed cleanly.

“That little cut on your face?” Von Janor smirked. “Worth it.”

“Couldn’t exactly trade my leg for it,” Faiston replied, stepping over broken glass.

He’d used the shards to cut himself free, his movements hidden behind Von Janor. Chuck roared in anger but didn’t panic—yet. More than a dozen guns still aimed their way.

“Even if you’re loose, you’re still surrounded,” Chuck said. He raised a hand, and MP5 submachine guns closed in. The thundering music outside had masked all earlier gunfire. Nobody would notice a few bodies here.

But something about their calm unnerved him. “Who the hell are you?”

Von Janor slid his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t you already know? Adam calls me Noi. You can too.” He wiped the blood from his head with a handkerchief. “Eye for an eye, blood for blood. Anyone who makes me bleed pays for it.”

He ignored the guns as if they were toys, dropping the bloodied cloth to the floor. His eyes alone were enough to make Chuck hesitate.

“I don’t care who you are,” Chuck snapped. “You’re opening that safe. Now. Or you both die.”

He wasn’t wrong—they were outnumbered, badly. Von Janor glanced at Faiston. The man’s expression didn’t change, steady as ever.

“You’re not opening it?” Faiston asked.

“For your safety, darling,” Von Janor said with mock sweetness, “I suppose I must.”

The moment he stepped forward, a gun jabbed into him.

“Stay right there. Just tell me the code.”

“With this many guns on me, my memory’s terrible. I think he told me once, and I’ve seen him open it, but I never paid much attention. I need to see it up close to remember. What, afraid I’ll steal your treasure?”

Chuck weighed it. “Go.”

The safe’s dial clicked left, then right under Von Janor’s hands. All eyes followed it, unblinking—

Until a pounding at the door cut through the tension.

“Chuck! Cops are doing a sweep—move!”

It was Luca, the bar’s owner.

“Is it us they want?” Chuck demanded.

“Routine inspection. They’ve been doing sweeps all month. Bad timing.”

Cursing, Chuck barked, “Take them to the basement! Move!”

They didn’t bother retying the captives. The basement was a stockroom—cool, windowless, full of liquor and a little food.

Von Janor eyed the chandelier overhead and smirked. “Didn’t expect to spend the night with you, FBI.”

“I’m glad,” Faiston said, rummaging through crates. The smell of preserved meat drifted up.

“Glad because you get to drag me in for a commendation?” Von Janor caught the can Faiston tossed him.

“You know why.”

Pulling out a bottle of whiskey, Faiston cracked it open—only for Von Janor to take the first swig.

When Faiston stayed quiet, Von Janor assumed silence was agreement—until the man finally spoke. “No hard evidence yet. But your face is in our files now. That’s something.”

“Who drew me? Tell me so I can silence them.” Half-joking, half-not.

“Me,” Faiston said.

The licking of fingers stopped. “Know why I didn’t let Chuck work you over just now?” Von Janor asked.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve decided—you’re mine.” His blue eyes glittered with frost and amusement. “You’re a worthy opponent, Faiston Kaida. That moment—when I finally take you—I won’t share it with anyone.”

Faiston understood perfectly what “that moment” meant. He smiled. “You too, Ghost.”

Predator recognizing predator, the air between them charged with unspoken challenge. For once, Von Janor felt the rush of having a partner, not just a target.

“Too bad,” Faiston said, “in an hour, things will be different.”

Von Janor didn’t reply. He just kept eating, replenishing his strength.

In this strange place, something like a truce had formed—a fragile balance.

Digging through supplies, Von Janor found bread and handed it to Faiston, who asked suddenly, “Why save the cat? You had a chance to escape.”

“Don’t you think I regret it?” Von Janor said.

Faiston caught his wrist before he could pull back.