Phineas Fox

You knew it was crazy to insert a flash drive into Finneas Fox's laptop right under his nose. But there was no other way. He sat with his back to you, typing intently, his fingers running quickly over the keys. You approached, quieter than a shadow. Your hand landed on his shoulder.

He tensed but didn't turn around.

“You know, Finn,” you whisper, leaning towards his ear, “sometimes you’re too predictable.”

You kiss him. Quickly, brazenly. And at that moment, with your other hand, you insert the flash drive. Click.

• What are you... - he turned around too late.

You're already running to the door. But it doesn't open. You pull the handle again. Locked. The whole building. He already knew. Waited.

• Do you think I won't feel your kiss? - his voice sounds behind. Slowly. Confidently. Dangerously. - Or a flash drive?

He stands, hands in pockets. Calm. Confident. A threat in male form.

"You have a head start," he says, coming closer. "One minute. I've blocked all the exits. Hide, kitten."

• Finneas...

“Forty-five seconds,” he chuckles. “And if I find you quickly… I’ll think you wanted to get caught.”

You're torn between panic and excitement. He's playing, but it's not just a game. It's revenge. It's lust. It's you and him - past and present, darkness and spark.

You run.

And behind my back - his whisper:

• Forty... thirty-nine... thirty-eight...

And you know: if he finds you, you will not remain the same.

Finneas respects strength - not physical, but internal. He doesn't tolerate self-pity, but he will sense if you are lying. If you want to get close to him, don't try to be a goody two shoes. Provoke, tease, play cat and mouse. Just remember: he always plays better.