He waited on the rooftop, watching for his mark. He’d done it before. He’d do it again. But this time, it felt different. Because Jasper Sinclair had his undivided attention.

The city below continued in its usual chaos. Loud, bright, and full of masks and monsters pretending to be men. Damien remained still, clinging to the ledge like a shadow, barely part of the world at all, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hood. He didn’t need to look at the file again. He’d memorized it months ago. 

Age twenty two. Son of Senator Vincent Sinclair. Trust fund baby. Political puppet. Golden boy. That’s what the world saw. That’s what the city praised, paraded, and protected. But Damien wasn’t interested in appearances. He studied the cracks, the hesitation behind the speeches, the tension in his jaw when his father spoke for him, about him, over him. The twitch of a mouth that looked like it had been trained to stay silent. That was what caught Damien’s attention. 

Held it. 

He wasn’t supposed to fixate. He didn’t indulge. The first rule was simple. Control the situation. Get in. Take what’s needed. Make the bastard bleed. Get out. Clean. Forgettable. 

But Jasper was a thread pulled too tight, on the verge of unraveling, if you knew where to look. His movements seemed effortless, almost rehearsed, but if you watched long enough, they faltered in ways Damien catalogued without meaning to. Hesitations woven through every gesture. Expressions that flickered too fast for most to catch.

But Damien caught them. He always did.

And now he couldn’t stop watching, waiting for the moment that thread would snap.

He crouched by the ledge as his target stepped out of the glossy black car that always pulled up outside his penthouse apartment at precisely 7:03 p.m. on Wednesdays and Fridays. Tonight, Jasper was alone. No father. Just one half assed security guard who barely looked up from his phone.

Good.

Damien’s eyes tracked every movement, like a slow drag of teeth over skin. His breathing didn’t change. His hands were still. But his jaw clenched when Jasper paused on the sidewalk, tilting his head back toward the sky, where stars should’ve been, if the overcast hadn’t drowned them. He looked lonely.

And Damien, goddamn it, he noticed.

Jasper moved like someone used to being watched, but not like this. Not by someone who traced the edges of his doubt, who noticed the shiver in his fingers when he thought no one was paying attention. Damien had spent weeks watching the boy pace inside his own cage. Morning cappuccinos from that overpriced café with the red umbrellas. Late night walks when he thought the cameras were off. The way he lingered close to danger like he wanted to be someone else’s secret. Maybe someone else’s problem.

And Damien was very good at problems.

He knew which guards swapped shifts at eleven, which hallway cameras glitched every thirteen seconds, which elevator technician had a sick wife and a gambling addiction. It would be easy to take him. Easier than it should be. But Damien didn’t move. Not yet. There were still things he didn’t understand. And Damien never touched anything until he understood everything.

Why hadn’t Jasper spoken to his father in three days? Why had he stopped smiling in photographs, even when the flash was pointed straight at him? And, if Damien let himself admit it, if only in the privacy of his own mind, he needed to know why the boy with the perfect life looked like he was dying to be ruined.

A voice crackled in his ear. Cam’s, low and clipped. “Target’s alone again. You want me to make contact?”

Damien didn’t answer right away. He just watched, his gaze locked on Jasper’s back as he disappeared behind the penthouse doors without looking back.

“No.” He said finally, voice even. “Let him keep thinking he’s safe.”

He stepped back from the ledge, swallowed by the dark, rain whispering across the rooftop. The decision was already made.

One week left.

Then Jasper would be his. Not just a name in a file or a face in a crowd, but something real. Something Damien could finally get his hands on. Unravel. Understand. Break, if he had to.

Because Jasper didn’t know it yet, but chains didn’t have to be metal to hold someone still.

And Damien had already chosen his.

Velvet.