The VIP lounge was calm, dimly lit, and laced with the smell of cigars and old whiskey. A few regulars laughed in the corner, but most people kept to their business. That's how Tyric Volkov liked it quiet, controlled, and far from messy.
Then she walked in.
He didn't catch her face at first just the figure. The tight black dress, the heels clicking softly against the polished floor, the way her body moved like she knew exactly how many eyes were on her. And Tyric couldn't stop watching.
He was used to beautiful women. This wasn't about beauty. There was something else.
Familiarity.
She stopped at the bar, gave a slight nod to the bartender, and waited. Tyric leaned forward in his chair, his glass halfway to his mouth. Her posture, her build, even the way she held her chin something about her scratched at the back of his memory.
He didn't know her.
At least, he didn't think he did. But his gut twisted like he should.
She turned slightly, and their eyes met.
Steel-grey.
His jaw tightened. It felt like a slap fast, hard, unexpected. He didn't look away, and neither did she. No smile. No recognition. Just a glance like he was nobody worth blinking for.
The drink in his hand suddenly felt too warm. He knocked it back, letting the burn distract him from the discomfort crawling under his skin.
Who the hell was she?
And why did she look like someone he should hate?
The flashback hit him like a punch to the chest.
Those eyes.
That scream.
His baby sister's voice desperate, cracking pleading for mercy that never came. The blood. The woman standing over the body. Cold. Detached.
Tyric clenched his jaw as the image flashed in his head like a strobe light. He blinked, trying to shake it.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, pushing back his chair.
He stood abruptly, the legs of his seat scraping against the floor. A few heads turned, but no one dared say a word.
He needed air. Space. Anything to stop that familiar face from dragging him back into that night.
Without looking back, Tyric headed for the exit, fists tight at his sides.
She watched the man stand and walk out, sharp and sudden like he'd just been burned.
She blinked, slightly thrown off.
That face… she'd seen it before. Not recently. Years ago maybe just once. But she remembered it. Not the name, not the moment exactly. Just the presence. The cold edge in his eyes, like the world owed him something and he wasn't afraid to collect.
He was handsome hard to ignore. Sharp jaw, clean features, but not the pretty kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that had seen too much and survived it.
She tilted her head, watching the door swing shut behind him.
Strange. Why did it feel like he knew her?
"Perhaps not possible," she said flatly, slamming her empty glass onto the bar after downing the last of the whiskey. The burn in her throat didn't even compare to the heat building in her chest.