CHAPTER 2

"Damn, look at that," a voice slurred. A drunk in a stained polo stumbled into Timothy’s path, reeking of cheap gin and bad intentions. "You’re a pretty one, aren't you? A little lost bird?"

Timothy stopped. He looked the man up and down, his gaze flat and clinical. "You have ten seconds to find a different direction."

The drunk’s friend barked a laugh, stepping up close. The guy’s breath was a chemical weapon. "Or what, sweetheart? You gonna bite?"

Timothy didn't waste words. He didn't feel anger; he felt the familiar, cold calculation of a predator. He stepped into the man’s space, his knee driving upward with explosive, bone-shattering force into the drunk's groin. As the man doubled over, Timothy’s elbow connected with the bridge of his nose.

Crunch. The man hit the concrete like a sack of wet sand. His friend froze, eyes wide. Timothy wiped a stray drop of blood off his knuckle onto the man's shirt.

"Eight seconds left," Timothy whispered. The friend bolted.

Timothy turned toward The Lead Pipe. The windows were reinforced with steel mesh. The door was heavy oak, scarred by years of forced entries and bar fights. No neon signs here. Just a red light above the frame that hummed with a low, electrical throb. This was a neutral ground for the Sopttyi underworld, a place where the Blackwell enforcers kept the peace with iron fists.

He pushed the door open. The scent of stale tobacco, spilled bourbon, and old sweat hit him like a physical blow. The bass from the speakers rattled his teeth. Timothy scanned the room. It was early, but the booths were already filling with the kind of men who carried heat under their tailored jackets.

He moved to the bar, sliding onto a stool between two hulking figures. "Whiskey. Neat. The most expensive bottle you’re hiding."

The bartender, a bald man with a scar running through his eyebrow, grunted and reached for a bottle. Timothy didn't plan on drinking it. Alcohol was a liability. It slowed the reflexes, dulled the edge. He just needed the seat.

"I'm Gideon," a voice rumbled to his right.

Timothy didn't turn. He watched the man’s reflection in the grime-streaked mirror behind the bar. The man was fair-haired, wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than a Sopttyi apartment. His eyes were a strange, predatory amber. He wasn't a common thug. This was Gideon Blackwell. The name sent a jolt of ice through Timothy’s veins.

"Not interested," Timothy said, his voice a razor.

"A little hostile for a Sunday night, don't you think, Gal?"

Timothy’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He knows my name. "I don't know who you think I am," Timothy said, finally turning his head.

Gideon smiled, but it didn't reach those golden eyes. He drained his glass in one go, the muscles in his thick neck working. "I know exactly who you are. The ghost of Saati Town. The little reaper who’s been cutting the throats of Samon Lity’s best men."

Timothy’s hand drifted toward the concealed blade in his waistband. "If you’re here to collect a bounty, you’re going to find out I’m a lot harder to kill than Lity’s street muscle."

"I'm not here for a bounty," Gideon said. He leaned in, the scent of mint and expensive leather surrounding Timothy. "I'm here for the show."

He stood up, his height dwarfing Timothy. He was a wall of muscle, his presencia feral and suffocating. He looked like he could snap a man's spine without breaking a sweat. Timothy’s skin prickled—not with fear, but with a sudden, unwanted heat.

"Where you from, kid?" the bartender asked, dropping the glass on the counter.

"Far enough away," Timothy snapped, dismissing the man with a flick of his wrist.

He turned back to Gideon. The Blackwell enforcer was watching the dance floor, where bodies were grinding together in a sweaty, desperate rhythm. The air in the bar felt heavy, charged with a tension that made Timothy’s breath hitch.

"You have a disadvantage, Blackwell," Timothy said, his voice dropping an octave. "You know me. I don't know a thing about you."

Gideon chuckled. The sound was a low vibration that seemed to settle right between Timothy’s thighs. Timothy felt a sudden, sharp ache—a physical pull toward this dangerous man that made no sense.

"I'm the guy who’s going to make sure you stay alive tonight," Gideon said. "Whether you want me to or not."

Timothy’s target, a thin man with a twitchy gaze—a low-level snitch for the Nash Rebellion—slipped into the bar and headed for the back exit.

"Too bad," Timothy said, sliding off the stool. "I work alone."

He didn't wait for a response. He moved through the crowd, a shadow among shadows. He caught the snitch in the alleyway behind the bar, slamming him against the damp brick.

"The leak," Timothy hissed, his forearm pinned against the man's throat. "Give me the name."

The man gasped, his eyes bulging. Timothy leaned in, his mind racing through the fragments of intel he’d gathered. He could feel someone behind him. That same heavy, predator heat. Gideon.

"You're persistent," Timothy muttered over his shoulder.

"You're sloppy," Gideon replied, leaning against the opposite wall, watching with detached interest. "The Blackwells don't like it when people make a mess in our district."

Timothy ignored him, digging his fingers into the snitch's jaw. "The name. Now."

The snitch blurted it out—a name Timothy hadn't expected. Marcus Neol. Before the man could say another word, Timothy pulled a silenced pistol and ended it. One clean shot. The body slumped to the pavement.

Timothy turned, his chest heaving. Gideon was staring at him, his gaze sliding down Timothy's body, lingering on his waist, his thighs, the way his jacket stretched over his shoulders.

"That was cold," Gideon said, stepping closer. He was so close Timothy could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

Gideon reached out, his thumb brushing Timothy’s bottom lip. The contact was electric. Timothy’s legs felt like lead, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"I think it’s time you met my partner," Gideon whispered. "Kan has been looking for you."

Timothy's survival instinct screamed. He swiped his hand across Gideon's face—a distraction—and bolted into the darkness of the alley.

"See you soon, little reaper!" Gideon’s laugh followed him into the night.

Timothy didn't look back. He ran until his lungs burned, the ghost of Gideon's touch still stinging on his lip. He had the name, but the game had just changed. He wasn't the hunter anymore.

He was the prey.