Jack had been pacing the length of the small room for so long that the floor seemed to echo the patterns of his footsteps. The air-conditioner hummed softly overhead, but the cold didn't help. A sheen of sweat had already formed across his collarbone, sliding slowly down his chest. His throat felt tight—worse than any interrogation room he had ever been in.
This room wasn't a cell, but it wasn't freedom either.
He was a hostage, a "guest," a prisoner with luxury towels and surveillance cameras.
And tonight, the walls felt closer.
His mind kept replaying the alley… the moment Arora appeared through the rain.
Her eyes had cut through him—sharp, suspicious, unreadable.
He had felt the noose tightening around his neck from that moment on.
He wasn't supposed to get caught. Not now. Not this early.
The consequences of failure were far worse than death.
If he didn't finish this mission, his entire life would collapse… the debts, the threats, the people waiting to "collect" him.
