Playing with Fire

The night air was thick with tension as Elena and Damian moved through the streets, their footsteps echoing against the slick pavement. She could feel his presence beside her—steady, controlled, yet charged with an energy that made her nerves hum.

She didn't trust him. Not yet. But trust wasn't a luxury she had anymore.

They stopped at an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building loomed before them, its rusted exterior whispering secrets of things long abandoned.

"This is where you saw him last?" Damian asked, his voice low.

Elena nodded. "If he's alive, he'll have left something behind."

Damian pulled a gun from his coat, checking the chamber before tucking it back. "Stay close."

She huffed. "I don't need protection."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Then try to keep up."

The air inside the warehouse was stale, thick with dust and the lingering scent of oil. Elena scanned the space, her fingers twitching toward the knife strapped to her thigh.

And then she saw it.

A message, scrawled in red across the far wall:

DID YOU MISS ME, ELENA?

Her blood ran cold.

Damian followed her gaze, his expression darkening. "Well. That's not ominous at all."

Elena forced her breath to steady. "He's playing with us."

Damian took a step closer, his voice softer now. "Or he's warning you."

She turned to him, and for the first time, there was something raw in her eyes. "No, Damian. I'm the warning."

A flicker of something—respect, desire, maybe both—passed through his gaze.

Then, suddenly—

A sharp clang from the upper level.

They moved as one, instincts razor-sharp, bodies tensed for the fight. Damian pulled his gun. Elena drew her knife.

A shadow shifted above them.

And then—

The lights cut out.

Darkness swallowed them whole.