Listen to Animals by Maroon 5

I should run. I should do something. But all I could do was stand there, frozen in place, my body paralyzed by the terrifying calm of his presence.

Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He looked like something straight out of a nightmare, yet impossible to look away from.

His suit jacket was casually thrown over the back of the chair at the island, revealing a fitted white dress shirt tucked neatly into tailored dress pants. The crisp white fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, the lines of the shirt accentuating the muscles beneath. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, the collar slightly open, giving him a look of casual disinterest in the formal setting he was so accustomed to. His gun, holstered at his side, was a reminder of the danger he represented, the cold metal just barely visible under the dark fabric of his pants.

He stood there, calm and imposing, the kind of man who radiated control with every movement. Those cold, brown eyes—were fixed on me with an intensity that felt almost predatory. His lips curved into that trademark smirk, the one that made my stomach twist in dread and fascination.

He was terrifying. Beautiful in a way that made me want to both run and be drawn in at the same time. The way he looked at me, his eyes lingering on my every movement, made me feel both small and exposed, like a delicate, fragile thing under the weight of his gaze.

"How did you find me?" I finally managed to ask, my voice a mixture of disbelief and terror.

He took his time answering, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the counter before he responded, his voice low, but taunting—deliberately slow and filled with menace.

"I will always find you, Amari," he said, his tone almost playful, as if the question itself were beneath him. "You can run, you can hide, but you'll never be far enough. I'll always know where you are."

His words sank in, his certainty chilling me to my core. The way he spoke, like this was just another game to him—like he'd already decided how this would all play out—made my blood run cold.

He took another step toward me, his presence overwhelming, his every move a reminder of just how much power he held over me.

The thought of running crossed my mind, but it was a futile one. His gaze lingered on me, too familiar, too confident, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to kill you."

But his words didn't comfort me. They only deepened the fear gnawing at my insides. Because I knew better.

We were quiet for a moment. He sipped from his glass, his gaze still unyielding, and then, in his usual calm, taunting manner, he spoke.

"You're wondering why I won't let you go." His voice was smooth, like velvet, but there was an edge to it—like he enjoyed this game, this dance of words. "You are connected to everything, Amari."

I couldn't help but scoff, crossing my arms as if it would somehow shield me from whatever he was about to throw at me. "Connected to what? I told you, I'm not a spy."

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he set the glass down with a soft clink, and his expression shifted ever so slightly—his eyes narrowing, darkening with something I couldn't place. Then he finally spoke again, his words dripping with meaning, with menace.

"You're an investigative journalist, aren't you?" He watched me closely, gauging my reaction.

"Yes, but that has nothing to do with this," I snapped.

"Think harder," he said, his tone growing bored, as if he was already growing tired of my defenses. "You've been digging into my business."

"I don't fucking know you."

"Think harder," he repeated, his voice quieter now, more dangerous.

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "Still doesn't ring a bell," I muttered, the sarcasm dripping from my words like a shield I was trying to hide behind.

He was unfazed. "You were writing a story," he continued, his voice eerie in its calmness. "A story about me. About the things I've done. And maybe I'm impressed you're the only person who's gotten so close to the truth."

My throat went dry. "The Hammer Street story?" I asked, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them. I could feel the weight of the moment settling in my chest, a cold dread creeping up my spine. "That was you?"

He didn't flinch. There was no regret, no hesitation in his eyes. "Yes. That was me."

I staggered backward, the world around me spinning, the room suddenly too small.

I stood there, frozen, in front of the man who haunted Hammer Street. The man whose name was whispered in fear, like some twisted legend—a shadow lurking in the dark corners of every conversation. A figure who people treated as a ghost, as mythical as the Candyman. And yet, here he was. And in front of me. The man who had massacred an entire block because someone dared to cross him.

"I was just doing my job," I said, the words coming out more shaky than I intended. Like I was trying to justify myself to a monster who didn't care about such things.

"Do you know people are dead because of what you're uncovering?" His voice was calm but it carried a weight, a dark finality that made my blood run cold.

The realization hit me like a slap across the face. Hard. My chest constricted as the pieces I had ignored all started to fall into place. My informants—those who had given me pieces of the story—had gone missing. Disappeared. I had brushed it off, told myself it was just a coincidence.

My mind flashed to my best friend, the grief she'd carried ever since her brother and cousin were murdered. They had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, involved in one of his business deals. Both of them dead. Gunned down.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, to steady my shaking hands. "My boss... he asked me to track this story, to dig deeper, and it just kept growing, getting bigger and bigger." My mind was racing, trying to piece together the fragments of truth he was feeding me. "But I didn't know it was you. I had no idea."

He laughed softly, like he found my disbelief almost amusing.

The story about the Hammer Street murders had exploded. What had started as a few articles quickly spiraled into something much bigger. The more I uncovered, the more attention it got—local papers, national outlets, even international interest. The streets were buzzing with the unsolved mystery, and the pressure was mounting. My boss had noticed, of course. He recognized the potential, the impact, and the fact that I was the one who could crack it wide open. So, he tasked me with taking the lead, with tracking down the story, piecing together the connections..

I didn't know just how deep I was diving into the heart of something far darker than I'd ever imagined. The more I dug, the more the pieces started fitting together, but something also dangerous. I tried to leave the story behind.

My boss seemed a little too eager to push me forward, a little too insistent. He suggested I take two weeks off to clear my mind, to get some perspective, and to take a break from the grind. It felt like a perfect opportunity to recharge and focus on the investigation, away from the city noise. I couldn't have been more wrong.

It wasn't a vacation. It was a trap.

I had been set up.

I never imagined that the villa, the one that seemed like a sanctuary at the time, would be the place where everything came crashing down. And now, standing in front of Enzo, it was clear. He was convinced I was a spy—one sent to dig into his business, to expose the truth about him.

He didn't believe me when I told him the truth. I could see it in his eyes—no trace of doubt, no inkling of understanding. All he saw was a journalist, a threat to his empire, someone who was digging too deep, too close to the truth. I didn't know how to convince him that I had no idea who he was when I first arrived at that villa. I wasn't trying to expose him. I didn't even know his name, just rumors of the man no one knew was real.

"I've been in this business since I hit puberty," he said, the words sliding off his tongue with a brutal kind of ease, as if he had lived this life for so long that the violence of it was second nature.

He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, his gaze like a weight pressing down on me. "I don't believe it's a coincidence that you ended up at my house with a laptop filled with information about me." His voice dropped, the words now cutting through the air like a knife. "I'm not letting you go until I know the truth."

My heart skipped a beat. He was promising to keep me here until he got the answers he wanted.

His words cut through me, like a chill that ran straight to my bones. "I'll keep watching you," he continued, his tone almost bored. "You'll never be free of me until you tell me everything. All of it. And until then, you're mine."

My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to step forward. "You know what I think?" I said, my voice steady, the challenge in my gaze unwavering.

He looked at me, amusement dancing in his eyes, as I closed the distance between us. His lips curled into that infuriating smirk.

"I bet you're afraid," I continued, unable to stop myself. "I'm sure they're onto you from the information I gave on that story."

His expression remained unchanged, like I was nothing more than an insignificant distraction. "Do you really think you're the first to try and dig into my life? The first to think they could pull a story that would bring me down?" His words were mocking, dismissive, as if the idea of anyone truly standing against him was laughable.

"Go back to sleep," he said with a flick of his hand, turning away from me as if I had just lost my relevance in his world. His dismissal stung, a sharp slap to my pride.

"You're a piece of shit!" I spat, the words flying from my mouth before I could stop them. I turned on my heel, walking away, my body trembling with rage and disbelief.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that everything had just shifted, that the ground beneath my feet had cracked wide open. I thought I was just doing my job—just investigating a murder, digging into something dark and twisted. But now, I was tangled in something far worse, something far more dangerous.

I wish I could kill him.