Despite the overwhelming threat, Nadia didn't seem bothered at all.
She simply looked at the man with that familiar emotionless expression, the one that made politicians tremble and diplomats second-guess themselves.
It was as if the bomb strapped to his chest had nothing to do with her. As if his threats were background noise, easily ignored.
The man shivered.
It was involuntary, instinctive—a reaction he couldn't control despite his years of training, despite his reputation as one of the faction's most formidable operatives.
They had chosen him for this mission because he was fearless. Because he didn't flinch. Because he had stared death in the face more times than he could count and never once looked away.
But a Battle Angel was a Battle Angel. The pressure she radiated—cold, immense, absolute made something primal in him want to flee.
But still he forced himself to stand tall. He still had the advantage. He still had the bomb. He still had control.
