Leon stepped into the Winston Hotel lobby like a man walking into his own living room—hands in his pockets, gun tucked somewhere that suggested he didn’t particularly care if anyone noticed. The lobby was quiet, too warm, the kind of rich beige and gold that tried to look expensive but came across as insecure.

  He approached the reception desk. The clerk—mid-twenties, neat bun, corporate smile—straightened when she saw him.

  “Hi,” Leon said, leaning casually on the counter. “I’m looking for a guest. Rose Brook.”

  The woman tapped something into her computer. “Yes. Miss Brook checked in a few hours ago.” She lowered her voice politely. “Room 189.”

  Leon gave a one-shouldered nod of thanks, the kind that made it seem like he did this sort of thing often. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  He turned toward the elevators, exhaling through his nose. His cigarette was gone now, but the scent of it still clung to his jacket. He hit the button, waited, and stepped inside when the doors parted.

  “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, staring at his reflection in the elevator’s mirrored panel. “You can do this. You’ve done this a hundred times. It’s just another mark.”

  But his voice sounded thinner than he expected.

  His jaw twitched.

  “Shouldn’t be different,” he murmured.

  Shouldn’t.

  The elevator hummed upward, numbers blinking. He inhaled slowly.

  Then—

  Flashback.

  A cold room. Tile floor. A silhouette looming over him.

  A voice—low, sharp, dripping with contempt:

  “So you can't kill Mrs. Brook… but killing your own mother was an exception?”

  Leon—small, maybe eight, maybe younger—sobbing, hands over his ears, knees pulled to his chest. Screaming.

  A hand is dragging him up by the arm.

  A door slamming.

  The memory spiked straight through him like a blade.

  Leon snapped back with a violent inhale, hand clamping over his mouth. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, his breath shaking as if the air had turned into water.

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even swallow.

  The elevator dinged cheerfully.

  The doors opened.

  Leon forced a laugh—thin, brittle—and shoved the memory down somewhere dark where it belonged. He straightened his blazer like he was dusting off something invisible, rolled his shoulders, and exhaled.

  “Get it together,” he muttered.

  And then, as if nothing had happened at all, he stepped out into the hallway—calm, slow, deliberate.

  Room 189 was down the corridor, light spilling under the door like it was waiting for him.

  Leon walked toward it with that same casual swagger.

  But for the first time in a long time… his hands were just a little unsteady.

  Leon found Room 189 and double-checked the number, though he already knew it was right. He could hear soft music inside—something mellow, something too classy for the amount of wine he suspected had been consumed.

  He exhaled, bracing himself, then knocked.

  The door whipped open so fast he barely had time to lift his head.

  Rose Brook stood framed in the doorway, hair messy, eyeliner slightly smudged, cheeks flushed a warm, unmistakable red. She held a half-finished glass of wine in one hand, the bottle somewhere behind her, probably uncorked with the unapologetic aggression of someone who’d stopped caring around drink number three.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Leon blinked once. Twice.

  “Uh,” he said, lifting his brows politely. “Could I come in?”

  “Hell no.” She planted her palm on the door like she was steadying herself—or preparing to slam it. “The hell you think this is, room service?!”

  Leon closed his eyes for a half-second. “I hate this job,” he muttered under his breath.

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  Then he straightened and cleared his throat.

  “Alright, listen. I’m Leon Hendricks.” He flipped open a thin black ID wallet—nothing flashy, but undeniably real. “A verified bodyguard assigned to protect your life. You’re Rose Brook, correct?”

  Rose stared at his ID as if it were a magic trick performed badly. Then she burst out laughing, loud, unfiltered, borderline feral.

  “Of course, I’m Rose Brook! Who else? The Easter Bunny?” She took a big, unnecessary sip of her wine and almost sloshed some onto the carpet. “Jesus Christ, you’re a genius, Mr. Hendricks.”

  Leon forced a smile that was really just a grimace in disguise. “Right. Well—”

  “And protect me from who?” Rose asked, leaning sideways against the doorframe like gravity had started negotiating with her. “Dr. Kazou Kuroda? Pfft.” She waved her wine glass in a grand, sweeping arc that nearly doomed a lampshade. “Get in line.”

  “So, that’s a yes—you understand the threat?”

  Rose narrowed her eyes and took another sip. “I understand that I don’t let strange men into my hotel room. Especially ones who show up looking like… whatever you’re trying to be.” She pointed at him with her free hand. “You look like a failed model for a cheap cologne brand.”

  Leon blinked. “Okay. Wow.”

  “Also,” Rose added, voice sharp, “your shoes are ugly.”

  And with that, she slammed the door in his face.

  The echo rang down the hall.

  Leon stood there for a moment, utterly still, staring at the beige paint like it had personally wronged him.

  Then he exhaled long and slow.

  “What a bitch…”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, stepped back from the door, and mentally recalculated his entire approach.

  Because apparently protecting Rose Brook was going to be a lot harder than any assassination attempt he’d ever survived.

  Leon descended the hotel stairs with the kind of irritated swagger only a professional killer could manage—half bored, half quietly murderous. He loosened his tie, rolled his shoulders, and muttered curses under his breath the whole way down.

  The bar was dim, warm, smelling faintly of whiskey, leather, and the tired perfume of travelers who drank to forget. A jazz record played somewhere in the back. The bartender glanced up—early thirties, good beard, eyes like he’d seen too many business conferences and not enough sunlight.

  Leon slid into a bar stool, exhaling sharply through his nose as if he’d just escaped a war zone.

  “Whiskey,” he said. “Double.”

  The bartender nodded and went to pour it.

  Leon scratched the side of his face, jaw tight, gaze drifting toward the polished bottles behind the counter.

  “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. “I need to get close to her if I’m gonna kill her. Get close.” He snorted bitterly. “Fuck what Anders said. ‘No theatrics, make it quick.’ Yeah, sure, buddy. Because that’s realistic. Dumbass doesn’t know jackshit about this line of work.”

  He drummed his fingers against the bar while the bartender set the glass in front of him.

  “Thanks,” Leon said, already lifting the drink.

  He took a long, slow sip. Burned just right. Warm enough to take the edge off but sharp enough to keep him awake. Perfect.

  He sighed, leaned forward, and rubbed a hand over his face.

  Then—

  CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

  Heels. Expensive ones.

  Coming closer.

  Leon’s eyebrow twitched upward, then he saw her...

  Rose...

  Instead of meeting her gaze, he stared deeply into his whiskey as if the secrets of the universe were hidden in it.

  The footsteps stopped behind him.

  A perfume drifted in, warm, floral, and slightly boozy.

  Then—

  WHACK.

  An elbow jabbed sharply into his arm.

  He hissed and jerked around. “Ow—sheesh—!”

  Rose Brook stood there, red cheeks, irritated eyes, hair slightly wilder than before. Her lipstick had smudged a little, but she carried herself with the authority of a woman drunk enough to be honest and sober enough to be dangerous.

  “Stop acting nonchalant,” she snapped. “I know you saw me!”

  Leon stared at her for a beat. Then he started laughing, a low, amused, exasperated laugh he hadn’t expected.

  “You were the one who didn’t want attention,” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy gesture. “You slammed a door in my face. Not exactly a ‘come chat with me’ invitation.”

  Rose glared and slid onto the stool next to him.

  “You looked away on purpose just now,” she said. “Like an asshole.”

  Leon smirked sideways. “Just trying to respect your boundaries.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she groaned, reaching for his whiskey like she might steal it. "Obviously, I followed you for something..."

  Leon pulled it back, amused. “Hey. Get your own.”

  “I have my own,” she snapped. “I just finished it.”

  She flagged the bartender down with the grace of a queen summoning a servant, even though she nearly missed her own gesture and had to steady herself.

  Leon took another sip, eyes flicking to her briefly.

  Well.

  So much for keeping distance.

  She’d come straight to him.

  It was going to be one hell of a night.

  Leon let the silence settle for a moment, swirling the amber in his glass as Rose leaned back on her stool, eyes half-lidded and burning with that particular combination of grief and alcohol.

  Then he glanced sideways at her and said flatly, “Alright, then. Why’d you follow me down here? You could’ve talked with me out at your room door.”

  Rose scoffed hard, pulling a cigarette from her purse with the grace of a swordsman drawing a blade.

  “Oh please,” she said, flicking a lighter and taking a drag like she’d been smoking since birth. “Why the hell would I let some random man into my room? Especially in Amsterdam? Jesus, all anyone wants to do here is fuck around.”

  Leon’s mouth twitched into a half-smile. “

  This hotel ain’t on De Wallen, sweetheart.”

  She blew smoke in his direction in a dramatic, sarcastic swoop.

  “Yeah, well, you never know.”

  He let that hang, taking a sip of whiskey again before leaning his elbows on the bar.

  “Look, about the bodyguard thing—”

  “No.” She didn’t even let him finish. Her voice cracked sharply, snapping like a wire under tension. “No. We’re not talking about that.”

  Leon blinked. “Okay, but—”

  “Do you know what it’s like?” she cut in, voice trembling with something deeper—something painful, raw. “To lose the person you loved? Do you—?”

  The cigarette shook between her fingers.

  “I thought he was perfect,” she whispered. “My perfect man. I loved him. I fucking loved him... Kazou Kuroda...”

  Leon exhaled through his nose, quietly, waiting.

  “And I lost him to evil. To something sick and twisted.” Her voice rose, strained, desperate. “Kuroda is a killer. He ruined my life!”

  Her eyes gleamed, alcohol, grief, rage, everything mixed into something volatile.

  Tears began to pool, spill over.

  Leon reached a cautious hand toward her shoulder, hesitant—

  “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

  She slapped his hand away so fast he barely saw the movement.

  He froze, jaw tight, then lowered his hand, letting it fall back to the bar.

  “Alright,” he murmured. “Fair enough.”

  Rose wiped her eyes roughly, smearing her mascara more, breathing hard.

  Leon stared at his whiskey, suddenly far more sober than he wanted to be.

  This job was going to be complicated.

  Very, very complicated.