3 days ...
Kyan waited for midnight to strike. He paced around his small servant room, heart racing like a drum. His eyes were fixed on the tiny wall clock, each tick making his plan more real.
He was going to do two things tonight.
One—free Papa.
Two—escape this damn place.
He pulled out a crumpled napkin he had hidden in his shirt all day.
On it, he'd sketched his plan with a pencil he stole from the kitchen counter. It wasn't much, but it was smart.
The guard shifts changed at 12:15. That gave him a 7-minute window before the next batch came around.
The keys? He knew where Nico kept the spare ones—tucked in that drawer near his wine rack. He'd seen him throw them there carelessly once while yelling at someone.
The cameras? Kyan had watched the patterns for days. The east hallway blinked for five seconds every hour. That was enough to slip past—if he moved fast and quiet.
He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants and stuffed the napkin into his sock. No one could find that if things went south.
"Alright, Kyan," he whispered to himself. "Time to be a fucking hero."
Kyan looked left. Then right. His heart was pounding like a drum inside his chest.
Everyone was asleep—or at least he hoped they were.
He tiptoed across the cold hallway floor, barefoot, trying not to make a sound. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached Nico's bedroom door.
That arrogant, tattooed bastard must be snoring by now.
He held his breath and slowly twisted the knob. It clicked, just a little. Kyan froze. Waited. No footsteps. No voices.
Good.
He opened the door an inch, peeking in. Empty. No Nico in sight. The lights were off except for a faint glow from the bathroom down the hall. The sound of running water.
Shower.
Perfect.
Kyan slipped inside like a shadow. The room smelled like cologne and smoke. He kept his steps light, eyes darting to the nightstand, the desk, everywhere. His goal was clear:
Get the damn keys.
He crouched by the nightstand, pulling the drawer open slowly. Empty.
His fingers brushed a pen, a lighter, some loose change.
No keys.
He moved to the desk, checking each drawer fast but quiet.
Still nothing.
Then—there. On the edge of the bathroom counter. Just inside the open door, glinting under the warm light. The keyring.
Kyan stepped closer, careful, almost there—
The sound of water stopped.
Shit.
He panicked, backing up a little too quickly, his shoulder brushing against the doorframe. A soft thud.
Then, a voice from inside—low, cold, and way too close.
"Looking for something?"
Kyan's heart dropped straight to his stomach.
Kyan froze.
What should I do? What should I do? I'm in soup. I'm dead. Totally dead.
He didn't even turn around. His legs felt weak. His throat dry. Why the hell did he come here?
He could hear Nico's bare feet stepping slowly on the wet floor, the water dripping off his body.
"You've got five seconds to explain why you're in my room," Nico said, voice deep, cold and dangerous.
Kyan swallowed hard. His palms sweaty. His brain screaming run but his body couldn't move.
"I—uh—I thought this was the kitchen?" Kyan stammered, still not turning. "I—I was hungry."
Silence.
Then Nico chuckled.
That kind of laugh that didn't sound funny. The kind that made your skin crawl.
"The kitchen? At midnight? My room?" Nico stepped closer. "Turn around."
Kyan slowly turned. And damn—
Nico was standing there, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Wet hair. Droplets sliding down tattoos. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. And that key still shining behind him on the counter.
Kyan's eyes flicked to it too fast. Nico noticed.
"Ohh," he said slowly, eyes narrowing. "You weren't hungry for food, were you?"
Kyan's mouth opened, but no words came out.
Shit. The suspense. The heat. The way Nico was staring at him like he could see through his soul.
"I—I can explain—"
"No need," Nico said, walking closer.
Kyan backed up till his back hit the wall.
Trapped.
And somehow—somehow—his stupid heart was racing for more reasons than fear.
Nico's wet footsteps echoed across the room.
One step.
Another.
Slow steps ..
Kyan's heart slammed in his chest.
He could barely breathe. His eyes flicked between Nico's sharp gaze and that damn towel that looked like it could fall at any second.
Was this how he died? Cornered in a mafia boss's room, caught red-handed... and ridiculously distracted?
"You're shaking," Nico said, his voice low. "Why? Thought you could just sneak in, grab what you wanted, and run?"
Kyan's lips parted. "I wasn't trying to—"
"To what?" Nico tilted his head. "Steal from me?"
He stepped even closer.
Their chests nearly touched .
The air between them felt hot.
Kyan pressed his back harder against the wall. He should speak. He should fight. But damn it, why did Nico smell so good? Like mint and danger.
"I—I wasn't stealing," Kyan whispered, trying to hold his gaze, even if his knees wanted to give out.
Nico raised a brow. "Then why were your eyes glued to that key?"
Kyan stayed silent.
"You think you're slick?" Nico leaned in, his breath brushing Kyan's skin. "Cute."
The word hit Kyan harder than a slap.
His cheeks burned. His breath hitched.
Nico's gaze dropped—for a second—to Kyan's lips.
And Kyan knew. He knew.
If either of them moved even an inch, that line they'd been tiptoeing around would shatter.
But Nico didn't kiss him.
No.
He pulled back, lips curling in a smirk.
"Get out," he said softly. "Before I do something you'll pretend to hate."
And just like that, he turned away.
Leaving Kyan breathless. Flushed. And more confused than ever.
But his mind went back to his papa.
Locked up somewhere cold. Alone. Beaten, maybe. Waiting for him.
Kyan's fists clenched.
He couldn't afford to be distracted. Not by Nico's voice, not by his scent, and definitely not by the way he looked with just a towel hanging low on his hips.
Just save Papa. And escape.
Even if it killed him.