The warehouse was dark, the air thick with tension. A figure moved with deadly precision. His tall frame cut through the shadows, messy hair falling over sharp eyes that missed nothing. Every step he took radiated confidence — the kind of control that made others freeze before he even spoke.
A life was taken tonight. The world didn't know who had wielded that power, and it wouldn't matter. There was no remorse, no second thought. Just the quiet hum of a city waiting, unknowingly, for the storm that walked among them.
He stepped into the sleek car outside, hands brushing at the stains on his clothes. The night swallowed him, leaving only the faint trace of menace in the darkened streets.
In her small bedroom, a girl hunched over her desk, pencil flying across the pages of a worn sketchbook. She wasn't conventionally pretty — her height was short, features unpolished, yet her eyes sparkled with a mischievous intelligence that caught anyone who noticed. Her hair fell carelessly around her face, framing the quiet intensity of her focus.
This was Andrea . she existed in two worlds: the life her parents demanded, and the secret world of her imagination, filled with dresses, jewellery, and designs that lived only in her sketches.
The next morning, she stared at her closet, debating what to wear. The college seminar wasn't her thing — honestly, she found these events dull. But her best friend had convinced her, dragging her into the promise of excitement and gossip.
After some deliberation, she finally chose a smart, simple outfit — nothing too flashy, nothing that would draw unwanted attention. She showed it to her father.
"Fine," he said, voice strict but measured, "but behave. And don't be late."
Her mother nodded, a shadow of expectation in her eyes. Andrea rolled her eyes slightly, but obeyed. The seminar had a lucky draw — a scholarship — which had helped sway her parents' agreement.
Bag packed, sketchbook tucked safely inside, she left with her best friend, heart neither excited nor anxious… yet.
The college hall buzzed with chatter. Students clustered, phones out, taking pictures of the decorated stage and banners: Dream Big, Achieve Bigger. Andrea sat near the center, not too far forward. Perfect — she could see the stage, and someone in the front row could notice her without being invasive.
Time crawled. Thirty minutes passed with nothing but small talk and murmurs around her. Bored, she pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw, losing herself in lines and patterns while the speaker on stage droned on.
And then… he noticed her.
From the stage, he glanced at the audience, scanning casually. His eyes froze on a small figure, hunched over a sketchbook. The messy hair fell over her face, obscuring her features, but the intensity, the focus, the spark behind the pencil strokes pulled him in.
He didn't move, didn't speak. He just watched. And for a moment, the seminar, the applause, the bright lights — all of it fell away.
She was completely unaware, absorbed in her own little universe, yet somehow, in that glance, their worlds collided
He stood on the stage, crisp suit immaculate, voice smooth as silk. The students hung on his words, nodding, murmuring, some taking pictures, some whispering compliments. But none of that mattered.
His eyes kept drifting back to the girl in the sketchbook. Small, unassuming, almost invisible to everyone else — but her focus, the quiet intensity of her strokes, drew him in like a magnet.
What's she drawing? he wondered. Not the usual bored doodles he'd seen in countless classrooms. Lines flowed with purpose, shapes emerging that spoke of creativity… of a mind that didn't waste itself on the ordinary.
He leaned slightly forward, curious, aware that he'd caught himself holding his breath. There was something about her energy — not timid, not impressed, just… alive. And it irritated him in a way he didn't yet understand.
Andrea glanced up from her sketchbook briefly, adjusting her bangs. She could feel the heat of attention, or maybe it was just her imagination. The speaker — some CEO guy — was talking, but her mind wandered back to the sketchbook.
Lines of dresses and jewellery designs flowed from her pen. This was her world, her escape. The seminar was dull, predictable, and she was truly bored. Yet there was a faint thrill in her chest she couldn't explain, a little flutter she quickly pushed aside.
Her best friend nudged her, whispering, "He's giving a speech, you should pay attention!"
Andrea rolled her eyes. "I am paying attention… to art."
Halfway through the speech, the CEO's gaze lingered longer. She wasn't looking at him. She didn't even know he existed. That fact made him tense, frustrated, and… fascinated.
Who is she? he thought, squinting slightly. There was confidence in her hands as she drew. A spark in her eyes as they caught the light. She was small, unassuming, yet somehow… untouchable by the aura of his presence.
The kind of untouchable that made him want to reach for her, even before he knew why.
The speech ended. Students clapped, some cheered, some snapped photos. Andrea's hand froze mid-sketch, annoyed by the sudden noise.
But she couldn't shake the strange feeling prickling at the back of her neck. Restless. Uneasy. As if someone was watching her continuously. She shook her head, blaming imagination, yet her focus faltered. The single design she had started in her sketchbook remained half-finished, lines jagged and incomplete.
She quickly closed the notebook, tugging it closer as if hiding it from an invisible observer. Her heart thumped lightly, though she had no idea why. Something about the room felt… different.
Meanwhile, he lingered for a moment on stage, scanning the crowd once more. That girl. Small, unassuming, calm, yet the energy she gave off was impossible to ignore. He didn't know why, but her intensity, the spark in her eyes, the way she clutched her notebook — it drew him in.
For a moment, the applause, the chatter, the bright lights — all of it faded. He only saw her.
She was still unaware. But something in that gaze had already begun to plant the seed of intrigue.
The seminar had ended, but the buzz in the hall lingered. Students clustered around the stage, trying to catch a glimpse of the CEO, snapping selfies, asking for autographs. Andrea, notebook tucked safely in her bag, tried to slip out quietly with her best friend, Anya, hoping to escape the crowd.
"Wait! Come here!" someone called from the small circle near the stage. Andrea hesitated. She didn't want attention, but curiosity — or perhaps obligation — nudged her forward.
And there he was.
He wasn't smiling this time. Not charming, not polite. Just sharp eyes, tall figure, messy hair, aura that could slice through glass. He was talking quietly to a handful of people, his voice low but commanding.
One of them was an intern Andrea vaguely recognised from her college classes — someone she wasn't very close to but had exchanged a few words with before. The intern looked nervous, holding a small folder.
"You're… making a mistake," he said, glancing at the intern, tone flat but cutting. "If you handle it that way, it'll fail before it starts."
Andrea blinked. Something about the tone grated on her nerves. Who does he think he is?
The intern tried to defend themselves. "I—I just thought this approach might work…"
He raised an eyebrow, voice sharp. "You thought? That's not how results happen. Thought is for amateurs."
Andrea felt heat rise in her chest. Who gave him the right to talk to anyone like that? She stepped forward instinctively, her voice a little louder than she intended.
"That's… rude," she said. "You can't just talk to people like that. Not everyone is an expert like you."
The group went quiet. A few students stifled laughs. His eyes snapped to her, sharp and intense, almost like he hadn't expected her to speak.
The aroma of coffee and pastries filled the small café as Andrea and Anya slid into a corner booth. The hum of conversation and soft music felt like a warm bubble compared to the tension of the seminar hall.
"Ugh… I cannot believe him," Andrea muttered, stirring her latte absentmindedly.
Anya leaned back, smirking. "You mean the Mr. Leon Valtor? The hot, intimidating, scary-gorgeous CEO?"
"Yes, that CEO," Andrea said, rolling her eyes. "He… he was condescending, rude, and so—so full of himself! I mean, who talks to someone like that?"
Anya laughed. "Well, technically, you did call him out in front of everyone. That was… bold."
Andrea groaned. "Bold? I think it's called insane. He looked at me like he was going to rip me apart! And honestly, I hated him. Hated him.
after the chat,they both went to attend the lectures.In the middle of lecture,a teacher sprinted in and asked Andrea to go to room 143.
Andrea's steps echoed against the corridor as she approached Room 143. Her heart thumped, but not with excitement — with confusion. Who called me? Why me?
Inside, she glimpsed a tall figure surrounded by three others and a secretary. They were waiting, seated and composed, exuding authority.
Her first thought: This isn't important. I don't even care who these people are.
She opened the door, stepping in, and her eyes immediately landed on the man at the center. He was tall, commanding, with messy hair falling over sharp eyes, exuding a presence she could not ignore.
She blinked. Unimpressed.
He lifted his gaze, fixing her with an intensity that seemed to cut through the air. "Sit," he commanded.
Andrea's lips pressed into a thin line. She ignored him, striding toward the door as if his command hadn't reached her at all.
The two men flanking him moved swiftly. One grabbed her arm, the other gently but firmly blocked her path.
He didn't raise his voice this time — he only spoke once more, with cold precision: "I said, sit."
A chill ran down Andrea's spine. Every instinct screamed at her to resist, but she felt something strange in that tone, a power that brooked no argument. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself onto the nearest chair, eyes still defiant.
From her seat, Andrea studied him. The first impression didn't meet her expectations. He was… tall, yes. Brooding, yes. But for someone with such an aura of authority, she had imagined someone imposing, maybe even terrifying — not just a sharply dressed man with messy hair who looked like he stepped out of a magazine.
Disappointed, she thought.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She didn't like the way he seemed to measure her, as if he already knew too much. As the secretary and two men stood silently behind him, the weight of the room pressed down on her.
And yet… the command, simple and icy, had forced her to obey.
Andrea sank into the chair, stiff and alert. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She wasn't proud of it, but a small shiver ran down her spine. Why is this so… unsettling?
He stepped closer, presence heavy, every movement deliberate. The sharpness in his gaze made her chest tighten. He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, and spoke in a voice cold and measured:
"You will apologize."
Andrea blinked. Apologize? For what? Her lips pressed into a thin line. She ignored him, looking anywhere but at his eyes, trying to steady her racing pulse.
"I said… apologize." His tone didn't rise, but it carried a weight that made the air feel thick. The subtle threat in his calm voice made her stomach twist.
She clenched her fists in her lap, stubbornness warring with fear. I will not…
The two men behind him shifted slightly, reinforcing the command without a word. Andrea's chest tightened further, a chill crawling along her spine.
Finally, she exhaled slowly, though she didn't speak a word. Her silence itself was her defiance — small, quiet, but absolute.
He studied her, almost intrigued, noticing the mix of fear and stubbornness that burned in her expression. Interesting, he thought. She's not like anyone I've met before
Andrea gripped her bag tighter as he moved closer, her instincts screaming at her to protect it. She had no idea why, but something about his gaze made her uneasy — sharp, calculating, almost predatory.
Without warning, he gestured, and the two men flanking him stepped forward.
"Take it," he ordered. "Find out what she's hiding."
Andrea's eyes widened in disbelief. "No! That's—stop—"
She lunged, trying to resist, but the men were stronger. Her bag was wrenched from her hands, and in the struggle, her sketchbook slipped out, landing on the floor with a soft thud.
She froze, panic and fury bubbling up. "Give it back! That's mine!"
He paused, eyes flicking down at the fallen book. His sharp features softened slightly, not with warmth, but with interest. What is this? The sketchbook — her secret, her creativity — had drawn his attention instantly.
For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around the two of them. Her defiance, her stubbornness, her world contained in that little book — all of it pulled him in more than he cared to admit.
Andrea glared up at him, chest heaving. "You have no right!"
His gaze met hers, cold, calculating, but underneath, a flicker of curiosity ignited.
Andrea sank into her chair, arms crossed, glaring at him. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Her sketchbook lay open on the floor, pages slightly bent. She could feel his gaze on it, heavy and insistent.
One of his men handed it to him. He flipped through the pages slowly, deliberately, as if savoring each line. Dresses, jewellery designs, intricate details — every page spoke of her talent.
"Interesting," he said finally, voice low and sharp. "You hide this from everyone. And yet… you should know better than to defy me. Apologize."
Andrea blinked, chest tightening. Apologize? For what? Her stubbornness flared. She ignored him, looking anywhere but at his eyes, trying to steady her racing pulse.
"I said… apologize," he repeated, irritation underlying his calm tone. The chill in the air seemed to crawl over her skin.
She clenched her fists in her lap, refusing to give in. I will not… I won't bow to someone I barely know.
He studied her, noting the mix of fear and defiance that radiated from her. Bold. Stubborn. Interesting.
Andrea straightened in her chair. Her mind screamed to leave, but the sharp tone of his voice reminded her: she should apologize.
"You know you should apologize," he said, voice cold, irritation clear. "It's not just a command — it's basic respect."
"I… I'm not apologizing," she snapped, chest tight, trying to sound braver than she felt. "I haven't done anything wrong!"
He leaned forward, fingers resting lightly near her sketchbook, eyes narrowing. "Defiance is one thing. Disrespect… is another. Learn the difference."
Andrea's stomach twisted. Fear, irritation, and reluctant fascination collided. She wanted to leave. She had to.
"I'm done here," she said, standing abruptly. "I don't care what you think."
He didn't stop her, didn't raise his voice. He simply said, almost casually:
"Room 143 isn't the end of this conversation. And next time… I expect you to know better."