He stepped toward the bathroom to shower. Halfway through, the killer’s instincts made him freeze. Letting the water run, he grabbed a towel to wipe away the steam. The door outside was closed—he couldn’t see the corridor, but he was certain someone was there.

Carefully and quickly, he removed the explosive device. Suddenly, the door swung open, a figure flashed in, and a hand shot for his throat. He caught it effortlessly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Here to give me a massage?” He swung his arm sideways.

A strike came from behind his neck, fast and precise. The person outside rolled forward elegantly, dodging the attack and stepping into the room. “You called for a massage?” Feston Kaida frowned, standing firm. “I told the front desk, a woman.”

Unsure of his intentions, Feng Zhannuo closed the door and slowly wrapped the towel around himself. “So… you’re a woman?”

Droplets clung to his half-naked body, darkening every contour of his features, wet hair plastered to his face. He stood there, almost teasing, eyebrows raised—more provocative than any scene could ever be.

Feston had already admitted he was attracted to the killer. Seeing him like this made his breath hitch, gaze fixed. “The contract… canceled?” he asked, referring to Mrs. Maberry’s request.

Feng had already felt the sharp intensity of Feston’s stare. Now, it pressed harder. Feston’s eyes scanned him, and Feng lifted a brow, understanding. “If you want the answer, you’ll have to give me something in return.”

Their gazes locked.

A knock sounded on the door. “Sir.”

A woman’s voice. Trained, professional. Feng recognized instantly—special attention from Mrs. Maberry.

Before he could move, Feston walked to the door. “Not needed.”

A direct refusal. The woman assumed he was the client and left without argument. Silence returned.

“You sent my people away, and I need to relax.” Feng dried his hair with a towel. If Feston cooperated, he could enjoy some relaxation right here.

“Even if I didn’t, you wouldn’t let her in. If your client knew I was here, you couldn’t explain our relationship.” Feston’s gaze lingered on an object near the bed—a silver portable case, the perfect size for a Bracer sniper rifle and ammo.

“Technically, our relationship hasn’t changed. You wouldn’t compromise your stance for a killer, and neither would I.” He waved toward the bed. “Come over—I called for a massage.”

An FBI agent giving a killer a massage—absurd as it sounded, Feston approached, hands on his shoulders. “Time to talk. Have you abandoned the mission? Be honest.”

“Too little sincerity. You don’t think I’d betray my client so easily, do you?” Gun within reach, he stayed alert, never forgetting who was behind him.

“Don’t push it.” Feston’s palms moved with perfect pressure. Feng exhaled, eyes on the gun under the sheets. “How did you find my room?”

“Listened to all guest-service calls. Not hard to track you.” He had overheard the front desk conversation.

“You recognized my voice so quickly… impressive.” Feng didn’t know whether to feel flattered or unsettled.

He would complete his client’s contract. The FBI would pursue relentlessly. Who would win this game remained unknown.

Because it felt good, Feng allowed himself a moment of relief, moaning beneath the sheets. Half-naked, his long, lithe body coiled like a resting leopard, languid and tense.

Feston’s voice came low and firm from behind. Hands ran from shoulders to waist, skilled and deliberate.

But Feng knew better. “I won’t abandon my mission for anyone.”

Flat. Calm. Cold.

Feston wasn’t surprised. His hands paused briefly. Then he said, “You want to die? Come on, Ghost.”

Colder, heavier than Feng’s own tone.

He called him Ghost. Feng noted the anger, but who could stay calm in this situation? “Too bad… he’s your cousin.”

The negotiation over—other matters could wait, regardless of any illicit attraction.

Feston’s hands remained on him. Every corner of the room could hide a weapon; even exposing his back wasn’t trust—it was a test. The current tension, thick with subtle heat, could ignite at any spark, unless it ended in life or death. But Feng didn’t want him dead—and Greg certainly couldn’t die.

“If I restrained you now, for illegal possession of weapons…” A cold voice from the bed cut in, spotting the trap.

Feston smiled. He didn’t notice Feng shift, pressing against his body with heated friction. “Unless I arrest you on the spot, no charge will touch you. You confident you can escape, right?”

No unnecessary moves. Treating the Ghost as an equal was to acknowledge skill—extra gestures were a liability.

Feston’s chest pressed into his back, heat and tension against him. Feng, far from passive, reacted immediately—his alertness heightened from the moment Feston’s hands touched him.

“Things are heating up—don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Suddenly, he flipped Feston onto the bed. “Before I kill your cousin… maybe we should get a little closer…”

“While you’re still alive.” Feston pinned him down, lower abdomen pressing against his weak point. Smiles masked cunning, threats beneath deep intensity. “Besides money, what else did Mrs. Maberry offer? Drugs? Women? Weapons?”

“Those are good for making money, but no. Reputation—that’s the word. You should know it.” Not the time to explain more. Feng had already felt the effect of Feston’s hands. They were intertwined now, bodies pressing, friction sparking desire.

He hadn’t decided positions, who led or followed. Never experienced penetration. Seeing Feston’s practiced moves, he noticed the subtle shift in his gaze. “Were you always this forward with Adam Williams? All your targets?”

“Think I’m promiscuous?” Flame instantly extinguished. Feng’s eyes narrowed, coldly amused. “Adam won’t complain about my technique—and the dead don’t complain at all.”

No explanations needed. Rolling up from the bed, towel wrapped, disinterest in his tone, he said, “I’m done. Leave.” Reaching for brandy, he poured and swallowed deeply, feeling fire race down his throat.

Feston advanced. A sudden collision sent the glass crashing on the carpet. Pushed into the corner, his back pressed against the cold, patterned wall.

Eyes locked, breath ragged.

Feston bent to bite his neck, the taste of brandy sweet on his lips. Feng tilted his head, Adam’s reflexively stroking Feston’s hair, towel falling, firm body pressing closer.

“Open your mouth.” Breath and heart racing, tongues entwined, wet friction filling the air.