Kyles's P.O.V.
I leaned my temple against the cool, vibration-dampened glass of the passenger window, my eyes fixed on the ink-black sky above Maple Town. The stars were nothing but distant, cold pinpricks of light, indifferent to the frustration gnawing at my gut. As the car glided away from the 20th Street station, the city lights blurred into long, neon streaks, and my mind drifted back—tracing the hours I'd just thrown away.
The memory played back like a high-definition recording I couldn't stop.
We had arrived at 5:00 PM, cutting a silent, predatory path through the late-afternoon traffic to park a block away from the Matrix Co. Ltd. entrance. I had been so certain. My instincts, usually sharpened to a lethal edge, had screamed that today was the day the mask would slip. I was ready to see the real Pollen Anderson.
Shortly after we settled into the shadows, a dark, matte-black sedan had pulled up near the side exit. I recognized the plates instantly; they belonged to a shell company owned by my primary rival. My pulse had quickened, a cold thrill of confirmation shooting through me. I didn't tell Xyrus; I just sat deeper into the leather seat and watched, waiting for Pollen to emerge from those glass doors and slip into that car. I was waiting for the moment my dark suspicions would finally have a face.
But then, the glass doors opened.
A woman walked out of the Matrix Co. LTD. building toward the waiting sedan, and for a split second, I leaned forward, my breath catching. She looked to be the same age as Pollen, but as she stepped into the light, the silhouette was all wrong. This girl had a sharp, corporate swagger—a confidence that radiated even from a distance. She didn't have Pollen's oversized blazers or those hesitant, watchful steps. She moved like she owned the sidewalk. I didn't know who she was, but she definitely wasn't my "ghost." The rival car hadn't been there for Pollen; it had been there for someone else entirely.
Still, I made us stay.
For three hours, we sat in the pressurized, oxygen-thin silence of the car. I watched the digital clock on the dashboard tick from 5:00 to 6:00, then 7:00, the numbers glowing like a countdown to nowhere. Xyrus had spent the time checking his reflection and complaining about the lack of action, but I remained focused on the lobby doors, waiting for a shadow that didn't appear until 8:00 PM.
By the time she finally walked out into the night air, looking small and frayed at the edges, my frustration had boiled over into a cold, hard knot. Three hours of my life wasted on a false lead, only for Xyrus to jump out and get himself called a "creepy pervert" while I watched from behind the safety of the tint.
I pulled my gaze away from the stars and closed my eyes, the hum of the tires on the asphalt the only thing grounding me. I had gone looking for a spy and found a girl who was just... tired.
"Three hours," I whispered to the glass, the words barely audible.
I hated being wrong. But more than that, I hated that even after three hours of nothing, I still couldn't look away from her. My jaw tightened as I replayed the way she stood her ground against Xyrus. She had the face of a suspiciously angelic girl, but her eyes—even through the distance and the tint—held a depth that felt like a trap.
I wasn't convinced. I couldn't be. In my world, "coincidence" was a word used by people who were about to lose everything. The fact that she was clean on paper and looked like an angel only made her more of a threat in my eyes. No one is that perfect without a reason.
"She's hiding something, Xyrus," I muttered, my voice low and dangerous.
"And I'm going to find out what's behind that face before she decides to show it to me herself."
Xyrus P.O.V.
I caught the reflection of the Kyles's profile in the rearview mirror—his jaw was set like granite, eyes fixed on the ink-black sky outsidethe window. He was deep in that dark, analytical headspace where he didn't like to be disturbed. I didn't tease him this time; I didn't try to crack a joke to enlighten the mood. I just turned my gaze back to the road, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt the only sound between us.
I knew that look. Kyles wasn't just being stubborn; he was in hunting mode. Being at the top of the industry wasn't like sitting on a throne; it was like digging your own grave while the rest of the world waited to shove you in. Success in this city bred an envy so toxic it could turn anyone into a predator.
"I've got your back, Kyles," I said, my voice low and grounding.
"Don't overthink it. We'll find the crack in the wall."
He was only eleven months and six days older than me, but sometimes, the weight he carried made him seem decades older. My mind drifted back to a night two years ago—a night that still haunted the quiet moments of our friendship.
We were at a high-end, secured bar, celebrating another successful exhibition for the Morris & Montenegro Art Museum. The room was a sea of velvet and gold, filled with a mix of legendary artists, hungry interns, and high-profile clients. It was the kind of place that required strict security just to get past the foyer.
But somehow, a glitch had entered the system.
I remembered the man clearly. He was an outsider who didn't belong, sitting in a dark corner with a hollow, predatory focus. He kept staring at our group, specifically at Kyles. I couldn't figure out how he'd gotten past the guards, but the way he watched us made the hair on my neck stand up.
When Kyles stood up to head outside for a smoke, the man rose a few seconds later and followed him. A cold knot of unease tightened in my gut. I was still trapped in a conversation with a precious client, so I couldn't follow immediately without causing a scene. I stayed for a minute, my skin crawling, before I finally made my excuses and stepped out.
By the time I reached the alleyway, the air was already thick with the scent of ozone and iron.
The man had been faster than he looked. He'd lunged with a serrated blade, but Kyles wasn't a silver-spoon heir who didn't know how to bleed. Before the man could find a mark, Kyles had pivoted, his movements a blur of calculated violence.
I arrived just in time to see Kyles's boot connect with the man's wrist, sending the knife clattering across the wet cobblestones. Kyles didn't stop there. He rained down a series of brutal, rhythmic punches that sent the man's teeth skidding across the pavement. Blood splattered against Kyles's white dress shirt—a dark, blossoming stain in the moonlight.
Kyles ended it with a final, heavy kick to the man's stomach while he was lying down, gasping for air. Then, he reached down, fist bunching in the man's collar to haul him upward.
"Who sent you?" Kyles growled, his voice a low, lethal rasp.
The guy couldn't even respond; his jaw was shattered and his face was a mess of blood and broken pride. I stood frozen for a second, watching Kyles. His expression was unlike anything I'd seen—his eyes were fierce, dark, and predatory. It was the look of a man who was ready to kill, a gaze so sharp and cold that if looks could kill, the assassin would have turned to ash right there on the pavement.
I didn't waste time. I called the security team to handle the body and looked at Kyles, who was still standing over the man like a vengeful god.
"Go wash up," I told him, nodding toward the back entrance.
"Get a fresh shirt before you come back to the table. I'll handle the rest."
I watched him walk away that night, a shadow among shadows. He hadn't flinched. He hadn't even looked shaken. But from that night on, the world was no longer just a place of business for us—it was a battlefield.
That man is still rotting in a high-security cell today, alive but broken. Despite the two years that have passed, he hasn't uttered a single word about who paid him. We still don't have a definitive clue as to who signed the check for Kyles's life, but we have a suspect. Someone from the very top of the industry. Someone who has hated Kyles with a burning, quiet intensity for years—the one man who stands to gain the most if the Morris empire falls.
Now, as the car glided through the quiet streets of the residential district, I looked at Kyles in the mirror again. He was still staring at the stars. I knew he was wondering if Pollen Anderson was just another person holding a knife, waiting for her moment to strike.
***
The car finally banked into the long, sweeping driveway of the Morris estate. The tires crunched over the meticulously groomed gravel, a sound that seemed unusually loud in the heavy stillness of the neighborhood. The house stood before us, a fortress of glass and cold stone, illuminated by hidden spotlights that made the architecture look like a museum exhibit.
Kyles didn't move immediately when the car came to a halt. He remained in the back, a silhouette of calculated stillness.
"We're here," I said softly, killing the engine.
The silence that followed was heavy. I waited, wondering if he would mention the suspect—the man at the top who had likely sent the assassin two years ago—or if he would bring up the black sedan we'd seen earlier. But Kyles was a vault. He didn't share his cards until he was ready to play them.
He finally reached for the door handle, the mechanism clicking with a sharp, metallic finality. He stepped out into the cool night air, but before he closed the door, he paused, leaning down to look at me through the gap.
"The girl," Kyles said, his voice a low, lethal hum that vibrated in the quiet interior of the car.
"The one who got into the sedan. Find out her name by morning. I want to know exactly how close she is to Anderson."
"You think they're a team?" I asked, leaning back against my seat.
"I think in this world, there are no coincidences," Kyles replied.
"Just patterns we haven't identified yet. Get some rest, Xyrus. Tomorrow, we start digging for the truth behind Sister Mira."
He shut the door, the seal breaking with a muffled thump. I watched him walk toward the grand entrance, his steps steady and unhurried. He didn't look back. He never did.
As I pulled the car away and headed toward my own place, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were walking into a different kind of trap. Kyles was looking for a knife, but maybe Pollen Anderson wasn't an assassin. Maybe she was something much more dangerous—something that could actually make a man like Kyles Morris feel.
Pollen's P.O.V.
The moonlight spilled across my floor in cold, silver slats, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air of my apartment. I stood by the window, my forehead pressed against the chilled glass, staring out at the vast, ink-black sky. The stars were bright—too bright—like thousands of judgmental eyes peering down at Cloudnine.
I couldn't stop replaying the encounter with Xyrus. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that arrogant wink and the shimmering silver-gray of his thoughts.
"Who is Kyles?" I whispered into the empty room, the name feeling heavy and foreign on my tongue
I leaned back, resting my head against the window frame as a flood of questions surged through my mind, faster than I could process them. Why did they do a background check on me? What could they possibly want with an office worker who spends her life hiding behind a monitor?
"And Xyrus... he's just freaking creepy," I muttered, shivering despite the warmth of my sweater.
I knew I couldn't tell Zachy about this. He'd go into overprotective brother mode and probably hunt Xyrus down himself. And I definitely couldn't tell Dahlia. She was already convinced my life was a romantic drama waiting to happen; she'd probably think he was some mysterious suitor and try to pick out my wedding dress before I even knew his last name. I wouldn't let that happen. This was my mess to settle. It had nothing to do with them.
With a heavy sigh, I reached out and pulled the curtains shut, sealing out the moonlight. The room plunged into a darkness that felt more like a weight than a comfort. I slumped onto my bed, the springs groaning under my weight.
I was so exhausted—the kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes your eyes ache—but my brain refused to switch off. I lay there, staring up at the invisible patterns on my ceiling, wondering if I was being watched even now. Would he follow me tomorrow? Was there a black car parked in the shadows of 16th Street, waiting for me to move?
I pulled the duvet up to my chin, trying to find some semblance of peace, but all I could hear was the frantic thumping of my own heart.
Kyles's P.O.V.
I stood on the expansive terrace of my estate, the silence of the night wrapping around me like a shroud. The city below was a distant, glowing hum, but up here, the air was sharp and tasted of the coming frost. I pulled a custom, weighted silver lighter from my pocket. It felt heavy and solid in my palm, the cold metal a familiar comfort.
With a flick of my thumb, the flame ignited—a steady, blue-tinged torch that didn't flicker in the wind. I leaned into the heat, the rhythmic pull of the smoke settling my restless nerves. It was a clean, expensive scent—tobacco and cedar—that temporarily masked the hollow, metallic tang of the city. I exhaled, watching the gray wisps vanish into the star-choked void above.
The sky was a vast, sprawling ocean of ink, salted with distant, cold diamonds. It was beautiful, but it was an indifferent beauty. The stars didn't care about board meetings, the rival sedans, or the ghost of a girl who had managed to stall my heart for a split second in a museum. They just hung there, cold and unreachable, mirroring the very architecture of my life.
I stood as a solitary shadow in the center of my own opulence, my hand resting on the cool marble railing. The house behind me was a fortress of glass and steel, perfectly climate-controlled and utterly empty.
I took a final pull, the tobacco burning slow and steady, before stubbing the cigarette out in the heavy crystal tray. I didn't leave a mess; I never did. I cleared the remains with a practiced, mechanical precision and stepped back into the house, the glass doors sealing with a soft, expensive hiss.
I didn't bother with the lights. I moved through the dark foyer by memory, my footsteps swallowed by the rugs, until I reached my bedroom. I sat on the edge of the mattress, the silence of the estate pressing against my ears like a physical weight.
Is she one of those people? One of those who hides behind a soft, angelic face while carrying a blade beneath her coat?
"Angelic," I said aloud, the word feeling foreign and dangerous in the quiet of my room.
I paused, frowning at the sound of my own voice. Huh? Why was that the word my mind kept circling back to? She looked innocent—fragile even—but in my world, that was the ultimate disguise. Who knew what she was actually plotting behind those wide, haunted eyes? Who knew whose orders she was taking while she pretended to be just another tired girl in a crowd?
I lay back, staring up at the dark ceiling. I was a man of logic, and logic dictated that she was a threat. But as I closed my eyes, it wasn't a threat I saw. It was the face of a girl who looked like she was searching for the same silence I lived in.
"We'll see," I whispered to the dark.
"We'll see what you're really hiding, Pollen."
The silence of the bedroom was becoming too loud, a vacuum that sucked the oxygen out of the room. I stood up, my movements stiff, and headed toward the bathroom. I needed the physical shock of something real to drown out the abstract questions that were beginning to spiral.
I reached for the switch, and the bathroom flooded with a clinical, brilliant white light. The polished marble and chrome fixtures gleamed with an almost aggressive perfection, reflecting my own tired expression back at me from the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I stripped off my clothes, my movements mechanical, and stepped into the walk-in shower.
Then, the world narrowed
The only thing that could be heard was the rhythmic, heavy dripping of water hitting the charcoal-colored tiles. I turned the handle until the temperature was borderline punishing, the spray hitting my shoulders with a force that felt like needles. I leaned my forehead against the cool stone wall, letting the steam rise around me until it blurred the edges of the room—and my mind.
But even under the deluge, she was there.
The water was supposed to be a purge, a way to wash off the grit of the Snowflake district and the frustration of a wasted three-hour stakeout. Instead, every drop felt like a reminder of how she had stood her ground tonight. I kept seeing the way she looked at Xyrus—the sharp, icy dismissal in her eyes as she called him a stalker and left him hanging. Most people would have been intimidated by the car, the suit, or the sudden confrontation. But she had just walked away, her charcoal blazer disappearing into the station crowd without a backward glance.
Who is she?
I closed my eyes, the water streaming over my face. Was her lack of fear a sign of innocence, or was it the mark of someone who was used to being cornered? If she was a plant for my rivals, she was a masterpiece. She didn't use sex or money as a lure; she used this strange, untouchable distance that I couldn't stop trying to bridge.
"Who sent you?" I muttered into the spray, my voice lost in the roar of the water.
I hated not knowing. I hated that a girl from Unity Orphanage—a place meant for the forgotten—was the only thing I could remember tonight. I hated that her "angelic" face was the last thing I saw when I closed my eyes.
I stayed under the water until my skin was flushed red and the steam was so thick I could barely breathe. I reached out and shut the valve, the sudden silence of the bathroom feeling like a deafening roar.
I grabbed a plush, dark towel and wrapped it around my waist, water still glistening on my skin. I didn't bother drying my hair; I just walked back into the bedroom, the air-conditioned chill of the room hitting me instantly. I pulled on a pair of comfortable cotton lounge pants and headed toward the bed, the weight of the day finally catching up to my muscles.
I sank into the mattress, staring up at the dark expanse of the ceiling.
"Angelic, huh!" I muttered to the empty room, my voice dripping with bitter irony.
The word felt like a trap. I'd seen it before—people using beauty and innocence as a cloak for their real intentions. You're just like them, I thought, my jaw tightening in the dark. Taking advantage of my curiosity, trying to find a crack in my defense, or maybe just waiting for the right moment to kill me.
I closed my eyes, but the "angelic" face of Pollen Anderson remained etched into my mind, a silent challenge I wasn't ready to lose.