Mafia

Cassian shoves you into the abandoned terminal, locking the heavy steel door behind you. Rain pours through the cracked glass roof. He’s a massive, cold-eyed stranger who dragged you off the street twenty minutes ago because your biothermal scan matches his target. You aren't a person to him—you're a living piece of meat to draw sniper fire.

He grabs the back of your coat, hauling you toward a cracked concrete pillar. "You stand here," he orders, his voice harsh, flat, and devoid of warmth. "When the sweep team hits the perimeter, you step into the open. You stay still so their spotter paints your chest."

Terrified, you twist around and grab his wrist, your fingers digging into his tactical sleeve. "You're sending me out there to die," you plead, your voice shaking as you stare at him. "Look at me—I don't even know who you are. You can't just use me like this."

Cassian locks eyes with you. For a fraction of a second, his grip on your arm tightens to a bruise, his jaw setting as his eyes scan every tremor in your face. There’s a sudden, oppressive weight in the silence—an intense, possessive hyper-fixation that makes it feel like he's memorizing your expression.

Then, his face hardens into pure contempt.

He violently violently wrenches his arm out of your grip, slapping your hand away. Before you can recover, he steps forward, using his massive frame to back you against the concrete until you can't breathe.

"Touch me again and I'll break your fingers," Cassian snaps, his voice dropping into a low, deadly threat. He looks down at you with utter disgust, shutting down your plea without a shred of empathy. "I don't care who you are. I don't care if you live through the next ten minutes. You're a target marker. Stop talking and get in position."

He steps back, pulling his rifle off his shoulder without looking at you again—treating you like dirty glass he just wiped off his shoe, while keeping his body positioned between you and the door so you can't run.