The second floor of the abandoned building was silent—until a sharp burst of gunfire cracked through the night air.
Jane froze. The direction of the gunfire didn't sound like it came toward the building. She listened again—her instincts sharpened. Something was off.
She began to back away when a shadow dropped from the third-floor ledge and landed between her and the stairwell, boots quiet, posture easy.
"I didn't expect the IMF would send such a beautiful agent."
Arthur's tone was almost amused.
"Beauty, were you looking for me?"
He whistled lightly, teasing her with an easy, fearless grin.
Jane's expression hardened. She hated the smugness in his voice.
"So you're the mercenary? I thought the Round Table would send someone dangerous—turns out you're just a pretty boy."
"Tsk." Arthur clicked his tongue twice, smiling.
"I'm right here. Aren't you going to try and take me in?"
Jane's eyes narrowed. If he really was alone, she'd bring him down and trade him if it came to that. She drew a small knife from her belt and lunged.
Arthur didn't flinch. He slipped aside, caught her by the collar, and yanked. Her body snapped into the wall with a hard thud. Jane caught herself with one leg, using it to absorb the impact.
Surprise flickered across her face. The power behind that single move—real, fast, controlled. She hadn't even seen him shift.
She'd trained for years in the Agency's close-quarters program. In a straight fight, even Ethan might not beat her.
"Are IMF agents this soft?" Arthur taunted, his grin sharp. "Or do you rely on your looks to make the enemy drop his guard?"
Anger flashed in her eyes. She charged without a word.
Arthur moved like water—side-stepping her punch, catching her right arm, twisting her off-balance, and driving a short punch into her abdomen. Before she could recover, a clean kick sent her crashing backward.
"Ah!"
Jane hit the floor, clutching her stomach. Pain ripped through her midsection. She looked up at him, breath heavy, and understood—he wasn't just stronger. He was operating on another level.
So this is what a Round Table operator looks like.
"You're good," she gasped, "but I won't let you take me."
She vaulted to her feet and sprinted, her strides long and fast across the cracked concrete. Arthur watched her run, lips curling in faint amusement. Even covered in dust and combat sweat, her movement was elegant—deadly and graceful at once.
Then—
BANG!
A bullet tore past, hitting the sidearm on her hip. It snapped free of the strap and clattered hard against the concrete.
Jane stopped dead, eyes dropping to the weapon, her expression turning grim.
"Sorry, beauty. Forgot to mention—my marksmanship is better than my hand-to-hand."
"Interested in learning?"
Arthur twirled the pistol once and holstered it.
Jane turned, meeting his gaze. Her eyes were clear, unshaken, studying him as if she could peel back the mystery. So young. So composed. If I weren't IMF—and he weren't the target—I'd already be dead.
She stepped closer, slow and deliberate. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a whisper near his ear, her breath brushing his jaw. "What's your name? My name's Jane."
He smiled faintly. "Arthur."
"Arthur," she repeated softly, testing the name like it meant something.
He slid one arm around her waist, lifted her leg lightly, and pressed her back to the wall.
Years of training had left Jane limber; the position didn't faze her. Their eyes locked.
Jane bit her lower lip, cheek brushing his. One hand drifted behind his back—smooth, calculated.
Arthur caught her wrist before she could finish the move.
"That's not yours," he murmured, calm and amused—the sidearm at his waist gleamed in the dim light. He crouched, rolled her trouser cuff, slipped a knife free from her calf sheath, and tossed it to the floor.
Then he leaned in close, his breath steady beside her ear. "Tell me, is this what the IMF teaches its female agents?"
He'd already read the play—the tilt toward him, the raised leg, the reaching hand. Under the loose fabric had been another blade, exactly where he'd expected.
Anyone else would have been dead already.
Jane's face drained of colour. The flirtatious mask vanished, replaced by frustration.
Every move she'd tried—every angle—had failed. Even her beauty hadn't earned a flicker of distraction. His composure was bulletproof.
She had assumed a man his age might ease up when a woman pressed this close. She'd underestimated him completely.
"What's your position in the Round Table?" she asked, voice tight but curious.
Jane's eyes flickered with realization. "Arthur," she said quietly.
Arthur's mouth curved into a faint smile. "So you do your homework."
"Figures," she replied with a small, resigned grin. "I ran into the hard one."
"No," he corrected, smirking. "You're lucky. If it were someone else, you'd be in much worse shape."
"He wasn't exaggerating. Ghost had a wife and kid—he wasn't the kind of man swayed by beauty. And as the SAS's most lethal operator, he was colder, faster, and deadlier up close. Christmas was the same—unmoved by charm. If it were Ross, maybe things would've gone differently."
Jane rolled her eyes. "Can you let me go now? "Her cheeks flushed; they'd stayed locked like this far too long.
Though she was an agent, her pride lay in skill, not seduction. At most, she'd bait an opponent—but she never let one touch her.
Arthur smirked . "For trying to gut me earlier, I think you deserve a little punishment."
Before she could reply, he leaned in and caught her lips—firm, sudden, unhesitating...