Chapter 2: A Dangerous Encounter

That night, Irene’s car sped down the empty street, headlights slicing through the suffocating darkness.

Bang!

A single gunshot shattered the silence—deafening, terrifying.

The car window exploded, glass scattering across the seats, shimmering faintly under the dim streetlight. Chaos erupted. Terrified screams rang out as the few open shops hurriedly pulled down their shutters.

The driver went pale, trembling in fear. The vehicle swerved violently, tires screeching before crashing into the curb. His head slammed against the steering wheel, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

Beside him, Irene blinked rapidly, dazed by the brutal impact. She pressed a trembling hand to her throbbing forehead, trying to piece together what had just happened. Through the shattered glass, she caught sight of flickering flames in the distance.

“My God!”

Too late, she realized they were caught in the middle of a deadly crossfire—gangs locked in a vicious battle for blood.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Irene carefully opened the car door, crouched low, and began crawling toward the safety of the roadside.

But before she could move farther, a figure emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a dangerous quickness. Though a mask covered most of his face, Irene could still see the sharp intensity of his eyes, the striking bridge of his nose. Blood stained his side, soaking through his shirt. Stumbling toward her, gasping for breath, he collapsed right at her feet.

From the darkness, another group of armed men appeared, their expressions carved with ruthless determination. Tattoos marked their hands.

“Perfect! We finally took him down. Finish him off!”

Their bald leader, eyes blazing, raised his gun at the fallen man. But then his gaze fell on Irene.

She was dressed to perfection that evening—her scarlet dress hugged her curves, her porcelain skin glowing against the dim light, her silky hair cascading over her shoulders, framing her doll-like face and wide, innocent eyes.

She looked less like a woman caught in a nightmare and more like a vision pulled straight from a dream—or temptation made flesh.

The bald man’s grin spread wider, his eyes dark with desire. He had likely never laid eyes on anyone as beautiful as Irene, and he had no intention of letting the opportunity pass.

“While you finish him, I’ll have some fun with this lovely one.”

He lunged, shoving Irene back against the car, pinning her beneath his weight.

“Please, no! Have mercy!” Irene’s voice shook as she fought to free herself. “Don’t hurt me, I beg you!”

“Why would I hurt someone as beautiful as you?” he taunted, tightening his grip on her shoulder as his face drew closer, his hot breath grazing her skin.

Behind him, his men laughed crudely, egging him on as if her terror were a spectacle meant to entertain.

But none of them noticed Irene’s trembling hand slipping into her small bag. With desperate resolve, her fingers closed around a pen. In one swift, furious motion, she drove it deep into the man’s neck.

His eyes bulged in shock as blood gushed from the wound. His grip faltered, loosening on her.

The fragile angel they had cornered was gone. Her once-frightened eyes now gleamed with cold, unyielding fire.

The porcelain doll had turned into a blood-stained rose—dark, dangerous, unafraid.

“You wanted a fight,” she whispered through gritted teeth, “and here it is.”

The men froze in stunned silence, only for rage to overtake them as they charged toward her.

“Don’t move!” Irene’s voice rang sharp and commanding. “Take one more step, and I’ll twist this pen. He’ll bleed out right here.”

Her words stopped them cold.

Then, in a flash, the man they thought unconscious sprang to life, gun in hand. Bullets erupted, tearing through the stunned gang. His movements were lightning-quick, calculated—a predator striking without hesitation.

Even the bald man collapsed, lifeless, a bullet buried in his skull.

Irene turned her head just in time to avoid the spray of blood, though it still soaked her dress and legs, hot and sticky against her skin.

The metallic stench filled her nose. Her stomach churned, and she retched, her knees buckling. She nearly crumpled to the ground—until strong arms wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her upright.

The man’s grip was steady, his eyes glinting with mocking amusement.

“You were so brave a moment ago,” he murmured. “What happened?”

Irene shoved him back with all her strength, glaring at him.

“Let me go!”

But before she could say more, men clad in black emerged from the shadows, their faces hard, eyes like ice. Around them, the glint of sniper rifles from every vantage point. They were soldiers of death—an elite strike force trained to kill without hesitation.

And then, to Irene’s astonishment, every single one of them knelt. Heads bowed in reverence, as though in the presence of a king.

“We await your orders, Mr. Montecillo,” their leader said respectfully.

Irene gasped, her blood running cold.

“Y-You… you’re Kristoff Montecillo?”