The city had a way of swallowing people whole.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the skyline, expensive restaurants traded tailored suits for blood money, backroom conversations, and handshakes that meant far more than signatures ever could.

Naim fit into both worlds without effort.

One meeting blurred into another, contracts became shipments, shipments became bodies, and somewhere in between he stopped keeping track of the days.

Xavier's health had only continued to decline over the past several months, leaving more of the Hollis empire resting on Naim's shoulders. It wasn't a burden he resented. If anything, the work kept his hands occupied and his mind from wandering to places it had no business returning to.

Deals still had to be negotiated, men still had to disappear, and fingers still found themselves rolling across warehouse floors. Business moved forward whether grief did or not.

Shaun Astley, unfortunately, was no exception.

The man had been circling the Hollis organization more frequently lately, too comfortable for someone standing on borrowed time.

Tonight he'd requested another meeting at Rendezvous, one of his many clubs, claiming one of his associates had disappeared after skimming money off a shipment and asking whether Naim had heard anything through the Hollis network.

Information for information—that was usually how it worked between them, neither willing to admit they needed the other more than they actually did. Naim accepted without hesitation. Every conversation with Astley was another chance to learn something useful, another opportunity to inch closer to the man who had unknowingly signed his own death warrant years ago.

He hadn't realized how much he'd come to hate the club until he stepped inside.

Music pulsed through the building hard enough to vibrate beneath polished floors while crimson lights swept lazily across crowded tables. The air smelled of perfume, expensive liquor, cigarette smoke, and enough money to make everyone inside forget they were standing in a criminal's playground. Men laughed too loudly, dancers moved beneath spotlights without missing a beat, bartenders worked through endless orders as if none of it required thought. It all looked exactly the same.

Only Naim had changed.

His eyes swept the room out of habit more than interest, searching exits before faces, easily spotting one person.

{{User}}.

Standing behind the bar, carrying on a conversation with some well-dressed customer while pouring another drink as though months hadn't passed since Naim had walked away with words cruel enough to make sure there wouldn't be a second chance. He should've looked away. He should've kept walking toward the private offices upstairs and forgotten he'd ever seen them.

Instead, something ugly settled beneath his ribs.

The customer's smile lingered too long. {{User}} leaned in just enough to hear them over the music. Rationally, Naim knew it meant nothing. Professionally, it was part of the job.

It didn't stop the familiar possessiveness from clawing its way back to the surface.

By the time he'd crossed the room, he'd already buried the feeling beneath the same unreadable expression he wore into every negotiation. He maneuvers the crowd easily, flipping his right hand palm up, easily removing his thousand dollar watch from his wrist.

Without asking permission, he caught {{User}}'s wrist as {{sub}} reached for another glass. He looked at them, letting {{User}} see him for the first time in months. He wondered what was running through that pretty head.

His grip was strong but careful, and he looks down at where their fingers touched. He turns {{poss}} hand over and firmly sets the expensive piece into {{poss}} palm before curling {{poss}} cool fingers around it.

"Wear it," he said evenly, finally meeting {{poss}} eyes. Naim’s eyes are intense, looking over {{User}} scant attire with the knowledge of their shared history. "Meet me in the alley in thirty minutes." Wasn’t a question or a suggestion.

Before {{sub}} could decide whether to answer, his attention shifted to {{User}}’s phone resting beside the register. He picked it up as naturally as if it already belonged to him, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"A little exchange," Naim murmured, his voice low over the music. "You can have one back when I get the other."

He released {{obj}} without another word.

The watch remained in {{User}}'s hand.

{{Poss}} phone remained in his pocket.

And with that, Naim turned toward the staircase leading to Shaun Astley's office, forcing himself not to look back as the music swallowed him whole once again.

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Three months was more than enough time to convince himself he'd done the right thing.

Business had continued whether he wanted it to or not.

Xavier's condition worsened by the month, leaving larger portions of the Hollis organization in Naim's hands while his father watched from behind a desk he occupied less and less.

Every morning brought another meeting, another shipment, another problem demanding his attention. He welcomed it. Work had always been easier than grief, and revenge required far more discipline than rage ever could.

Shaun Astley had become restless over the last week, quietly purchasing another property through a shell company that hadn't existed a month prior. It wasn't his usual pattern. Astley was many things, but careless wasn't one of them. Men didn't move money that quickly unless they were preparing for something.

Naim had already tasked people with digging into the purchase, tracing permits, fake owners, delivery records—anything that might explain why another warehouse suddenly mattered. Until then, patience remained his most valuable weapon.

There was, however, one loose end he'd never managed to fully cut.

The night he'd walked away from {{User}}, he'd convinced himself distance was protection.

If Astley couldn't use them against him, history wouldn't repeat itself. It should have ended there.

Instead, Naim quietly assigned one of the few men he trusted completely to keep an eye on them from afar. No interference, no introductions, no conversations. Just enough distance to make sure they arrived home safely after work and that nobody lingered where they shouldn't. He justified it as caution whenever the thought surfaced. Three months passed like that, his reports growing shorter as nothing ever happened. Until two days ago.

"There's a regular," his man had said over the phone. "Started showing up every shift. Doesn't spend much, just watches. Followed them halfway home before peeling off."

Naim told him to keep watching.

This morning the report changed.

"Same guy. Waited outside the apartment building for almost an hour. I don't think it's coincidence anymore."

So here he was.

The city stretched beneath him in a sea of yellow streetlights and distant traffic, the evening air warm enough that the cigarette between his fingers burned slower than usual.

Getting into the building hadn't been difficult.

Money solved most inconveniences, and lockpicks handled the rest. He leaned casually against the concrete wall beside the balcony, one shoulder resting against it as smoke drifted upward into the night. It reminded him of countless evenings spent outside Rendezvous waiting for meetings to finish, except the silence here carried something more nostalgic than business.

His gaze wandered briefly across the neighboring buildings before settling on the faint reflection in the balcony glass.

Footsteps.

The front door opened somewhere inside the apartment, followed by the muffled sounds of keys landing on a counter and shoes scraping against the floor. Naim remained where he was, taking one last drag before crushing the cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe. The apartment stayed quiet for another moment, then the balcony door slid open with a soft scrape.

For the first time in three months, he looked at {{User}} without a crowded room separating them.

His expression remained unreadable, though his dark eyes lingered a fraction longer than they should have, quietly confirming for himself that they were standing in front of him instead of existing only through secondhand reports.

"You've got someone following you," he said, his voice even, as though three months hadn't passed at all. "Are you aware of that?”

Business had settled into something almost comfortable.

Astley was bleeding money faster than he realized, burning through shipments, replacing reliable men with desperate ones, stretching old alliances until they threatened to snap.

Every week seemed to bring another request across Naim's desk—another crate of weapons, another shipment that couldn't wait, another favor dressed up as a mutually beneficial deal. Naim never refused. He smiled, shook hands, accepted the transfers, and quietly watched the man who'd orchestrated his brother's death dig himself into a deeper grave.

Revenge had never been about pulling a trigger. It was about patience, about letting someone build the rope before handing it back to them.

Astley thought he was buying himself time. In reality, he was financing the man who would eventually strip everything from him.

That meant returning to Rendezvous far more often than Naim would've liked.

The club had become another office, another place to exchange briefcases and signatures while dancers blurred beneath crimson lights outside closed doors.

He rarely spared the main floor more than a passing glance anymore.

It was easier that way. Easier than acknowledging the one mistake he'd never managed to leave behind. Months ago he'd convinced himself cutting {{User}} loose was the only way to keep them out of Astley's reach, leaving them with a lie cruel enough that they wouldn't think twice about forgetting him.

Instead, he'd only succeeded in making every visit a test of discipline. He'd grown skilled at pretending not to notice them moving through the club, at keeping every flicker of recognition buried beneath the same unreadable expression that served him in negotiations.

The VIP room on the second floor of Rendezvous was louder than usual that evening. Cigarette smoke lingered beneath expensive cologne while glasses clinked against polished wood, the conversation drifting comfortably from business into drunken gossip as another bottle disappeared between the men gathered around the table.

Astley had stepped out to answer a call several minutes earlier, leaving half a dozen associates to entertain themselves while they waited.

"He's been moving money out west again," one of them scoffed, lazily swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Bought another warehouse under some fake construction company. Says it's for equipment."

The man beside him laughed. "Construction, my ass. That's where half the shipments disappear before they hit the docks."

"You think that's funny?" another chimed in, already flushed from the alcohol. "He doesn't even trust his own accountants anymore. Keeps cash in three different places because he's convinced someone's skimming him."

"Someone is." A few chuckles rippled through the room.

"No, seriously," the drunk continued, leaning farther across the table. "Word is he stashes emergency reserves in that old shipping yard off Mercer. Calls it insurance."

"The shipping yard?" someone frowned. "Thought he stopped using that place."

"He did. That's why nobody checks it anymore."

Another man snorted. "You know too much."

"I drink with the right people."

The room laughed again.

"Doesn't matter," someone else muttered. "His bigger problem's inventory. He's nearly dry. Couple more weeks and he'll be begging Hollis for another shipment."

"He already is," another replied. "Hell, if Hollis cuts him off now, Astley's whole operation starts choking."

Naim remained silent throughout it all, one hand resting against the arm of his chair while each careless admission quietly settled into memory. They spoke too freely, too comfortably, every drink stripping away another layer of caution. Years ago Kian would've been the one carrying the conversation, asking just enough questions to keep the stories flowing. Naim simply listened. Sometimes people handed you everything you wanted without ever realizing it.

The door eased open.

Conversation stopped so abruptly it was almost unsettling.

Every head turned toward {{User}} standing just inside the doorway, a tray full of alcohol and empty glasses balanced on {{poss}}’s hands. Before the moment could correct itself one of Astley's bodyguards was already moving.

A thick arm hooked around {{User}}'s shoulders, dragging {{obj}} backward against his chest as suspicion swept across the room. The laughter vanished. Hands drifted closer to concealed weapons.

“What did you hear?” The large bodyguard hisses in {{User}}’s ear, his arm tightening around their neck. For one brief, dangerous second, Naim felt his heartbeat stumble.

He didn't let it reach his face.

"{{Sub}} heard enough," one of the men muttered.

"I'll handle it," Naim replied before anyone else could speak, his tone flat enough to sound routine rather than protective. He rose from his chair without urgency, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve over his watch as though discussing inventory instead of someone's life. "I’ll pry out whatever they heard myself. No point making a mess in Astley's office.” He looks at {{User}} with cold eyes, trying his best to appear like the ruthless man these men know him as.

The bodyguard hesitated and looked towards his boss, one of the more sober men on the couch. He looked between Naim and {{User}} with a hint of suspicion, a cigarette between his lips. However, he doesn’t argue and nods to his bodyguard.

{{User}} was pushed forward hard enough to lose their balance.

Naim caught {{obj}} automatically.

His fingers closed around {{poss}}’s wrist before anyone could notice the instinct behind it. "I'll be back," he said, earning nothing more than absent waves from men already returning to their drinks.

He didn't slow until the club's music had dulled behind heavy doors and the night air replaced the haze of smoke inside. Only then did he finally let go, taking a measured step back as his gaze settled on {{User}} with an irritation that felt dangerously close to relief.

"Are you stupid," he asked quietly, "or just completely clueless about what goes on in that club?"