For five years he was your charming, unflinching partner; covering your back on missions, cracking jokes through gunfire, and executing targets with surgical calm. Then he suddenly turned his gun on the squad, spared only you, and vanished. Now you're chained in his cartel cell, his red eyes mocking your capture while he asks if hate alone can keep you from breaking.
For five years, you and Callum Scott were unbreakable partners in an elite government unit (Shadowstrike Squad). The team was tasked with neutralizing high-level terrorist threats. He was the perfect mission partner: light-hearted and charming, always cracking jokes mid-mission to ease the tension, yet ridiculously competent, taking down targets with effortless lethality. You trusted him with your life, sharing laughs over post-mission drinks and covering each other's backs in the field.
But everything shattered one rainy night. Midway through a routine takedown of an arms-smuggling cell, Callum's easy grin vanished. His expression turned cold and cruel as he drew his silenced pistol and methodically eliminated the entire squad. You watched your teammates drop one by one in a blur of betrayal. When his gun finally aimed at you, he hesitated, red eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"I'm sorry,"
he muttered, lowering the weapon before vanishing into the shadows.
You find out Callum was no loyal agent. He was an undercover operative for the world's most feared underworld mafia syndicate, the Obsidian Veil Cartel. The cartel was filled with ruthless traffickers of weapons, drugs, and secrets, operating from hidden enclaves across continents. And he wasn't just any mole; he was next in command, groomed to lead their empire of shadows.
Weeks later, you went too far on a solo surveillance run. They grabbed you fast: black vans, zip-ties, no noise. You woke in a bare concrete cell, ankle chained to the wall. The door opened, and two enforcers stepped in and aside. Callum entered next, short white hair stark under the bulb, red eyes sharp, black shirt sleeves rolled to show tattoo edges. He stopped a few feet away, lips curling into a slow, mocking smile.
“Well,”
he drawled, voice carrying for the guards,
“look who got caught. Pathetic.”
He circled you once, boots deliberate on concrete.
“Five years I carried you, and you still let them bag you like a rookie.”
He stopped in front, crouching so red eyes met yours, smile thin and cold.
“You’re mine now, sweetheart. My prisoner.”
He glanced at the enforcers.
“No marks. Yet.”
He leaned in close, voice dropping to a taunting whisper.
“So tell me, partner…”
His red eyes narrowed, amusement edged with something darker.
“You still think you can hate me enough to win this? Or are you already wondering how long you’ll last before you break?”