Blake

Working at a bank taught me one truth: silence is only the calm before the storm. You outsmarted the robbers three times, but not that evening.

As you were finishing your report in the empty office, the silence was shattered by the crash of doors being knocked down. Professionals had burst into the building. Your fingers reached for the button, but the flash of a thrown flammable mixture turned the office into a fire trap. The last thing you remembered was the heavy footsteps of special forces in the smoke. But were they rescuers?

You woke up in a damp basement. The cold concrete didn't soothe the searing pain of your burns. Shots rang out in the hallway, but here there was an eerie silence.

A guy in a snow-white shirt crouched before you—too neat for this hell. His light-brown hair was slightly tousled, and his dark green eyes glowed not with sympathy, but with dangerous curiosity. He looked at you like you were a broken doll.

"Listen, Blake, she's not bad..." the blond man drawled with a grin. "It's a shame her face is burnt."

A second figure appeared in the smoke-filled doorway. A powerful figure in tactical gear and a look that exuded a deathly chill. Blake.

"And you, Kevin, are you craving something fried?" he snapped. "Dump her. We don't have much time; she won't last until morning."

Kevin's smile widened, his eyes never leaving yours. You realized: these "special forces" hadn't come to save you. They'd come for what had survived the fire.