Ryan's POV
The night was thick with tension as Ryan Asher stood at the edge of the crime scene, his figure hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, his gaze fixed on the chaos unfolding in front of him. The flashing red and blue lights from the police cars painted the street in a surreal hue, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Yellow tape cordoned off the area, and a small crowd of onlookers had already begun to gather, murmuring among themselves.
Another dead body. Another mess to clean up. Ryan had grown accustomed to the feeling-the aftermath of his decisions. Tonight, however, was different. This wasn't just any random hit; this one had purpose. And it had been executed flawlessly. The way the victim had been left, the positioning, the symbol spray-painted on the wall-it was all a message. Ryan's message.
The cops would think it was another mafia hit, just another piece of the puzzle they couldn't piece together. But Ryan knew the truth. He'd orchestrated this. He had to. There were people out there who would not hesitate to tear his world apart, and if he needed to send a warning, he'd do it in blood.
Ryan straightened his coat and adjusted the collar, making sure his presence wouldn't be noticed. He'd learned long ago that if he was to survive in this world, it was best to stay under the radar. Let the underlings and the so-called "officials" do their jobs. The police might think they were in control, but Ryan was always two steps ahead.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he briefly shifted his gaze, only to see a man in a long coat walking toward the crime scene, his eyes scanning the area, his posture sharp. It was the reporter. Noah Thompson.
Ryan had seen Noah before, although they had never directly interacted. The man had a reputation for being persistent and relentless, never afraid to get close to the action. He was one of the few who wasn't intimidated by Ryan's world. But tonight, Noah would get a closer look at something far darker than he ever imagined.
Noah's POV
Noah Thompson had been covering crime scenes for years, but this one felt different. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, a feeling he couldn't shake as he pushed his way through the crowd of reporters and spectators. The flashing police lights reflected off the puddles of rainwater that had collected in the streets, making the whole scene look like something straight out of a nightmare. But this wasn't fiction. This was real.
The body lay motionless in the center of the street, surrounded by yellow tape. There was no blood-just a clean, almost clinical precision to the way the victim had been left. Noah had been on enough scenes to know that this wasn't the work of some amateur. Whoever did this had done it before. And they had done it with purpose.
Noah's eyes scanned the scene, his instincts kicking in. He needed to gather the details-the angles, the evidence, the small things others might overlook. But it was hard to focus when the scene was this chaotic. He cursed under his breath and pulled his camera from his bag, snapping a few pictures of the body from a distance. There was something in the air, something he couldn't explain.
That's when he saw him. Standing at the edge of the scene, just barely visible in the shadows, was a man who caught Noah's attention instantly. His posture was stiff, commanding, like someone who was used to being in control. He wasn't a cop, but there was no mistaking the way he observed the situation-like someone who was used to the aftermath of violence.
Noah narrowed his eyes. He couldn't place the man's face, but there was something about him that set his senses on edge. A coldness, a detachment, almost as if he were above the law-or had a hand in breaking it. Noah's heart skipped a beat, and he instinctively snapped a photo, though he quickly realized the man hadn't noticed. Still, the image burned into his memory.
The man stood there, calm and collected, while the world around him fell apart. The more Noah thought about it, the more he was convinced this wasn't just another random hit. This was something bigger. And somehow, that man was involved.
Ryan had noticed Noah from the moment he stepped onto the scene. The reporter was different from the others-too sharp, too aware of his surroundings. Ryan had seen the way Noah's gaze swept over the body, the way he instinctively knew something was off. Most reporters would be too busy scrambling for soundbites or sensationalized stories, but Noah wasn't like that. He was looking for something more. He was looking for the truth.
The question was: would he find it?
Ryan tilted his head slightly, his eyes following Noah's every move. The reporter had taken a picture. Of him. Ryan didn't mind. In fact, it amused him. Noah was far too curious for his own good, and curiosity often led to trouble.
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Ryan's POV
Ryan's fingers twitched at his sides as Noah continued to linger near the scene, moving closer with each passing moment. There was a dangerous edge to the way Noah navigated the chaos, as though he were walking on the knife's edge between understanding and unraveling the truth. Ryan had worked too hard to build his empire-his carefully crafted facade-he wasn't about to let some reporter get too close.
But something about Noah made him hesitate. There was an intensity in his eyes that told Ryan Noah was no ordinary journalist. He was driven, relentless. That could either be a problem or an opportunity.
Ryan knew that the best way to keep people like Noah at bay was to control the narrative. He took a slow step forward, moving with deliberate purpose. As he approached, his eyes never left Noah, watching him as if he were the prey. He could already see the questions forming in Noah's mind. Why was Ryan here? What did he know about the victim? And why was he standing so damn close?
When they were only a few feet apart, Ryan stopped. Noah looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time. There was no fear in his eyes-just curiosity. A flicker of recognition crossed Noah's face, but Ryan saw no hesitation. The reporter had his own story to tell, and he wasn't afraid to ask the hard questions.
"Can I help you?" Ryan's voice was low, smooth, almost mocking.
Noah didn't flinch. "I could ask you the same thing."
Ryan's lips curled into a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm just here for the show, reporter. Are you?"
Noah stood firm, his camera still in his hand, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. "I'm just here to report the truth. Something tells me you're not exactly the kind of person who likes the truth to be known."
Ryan's smirk widened. "You're getting closer, Thompson. But be careful. Some truths are better left buried."
And just like that, the game began.