Inside the cramped janitor's closet, Rena's breath came in ragged, panicked hitches, muffled beneath the searing heat of Ren's palm. The stinging scent of bleach fought for space with the sharp, masculine aroma of the man pinning her down.
"Listen to me," Ren hissed. His amber eyes flashed with a lethal intensity, locking onto her gaze. "I need you to play along. There are ten armed men out there. If we just sit here, we're all going to end up in a shallow grave as inconvenient witnesses."
Rena shook her head weakly, her frame trembling in his forced embrace. Terror paralyzed her, but she had no choice but to listen.
"I'll give you anything you want," Ren continued, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating register right against her ear. "You followed me because you're desperate for something, aren't you? Say yes, and I'll make it happen."
The offer hit Rena like a physical blow. This was it—her ticket to the top of the CLOVER Survival Idol ranks—an opportunity wrapped in a death threat. She took a shuddering breath, gathered what was left of her courage, and gave a faint nod.
"Good." Ren released his grip.
Without wasting a second, he began unbuttoning his black suit jacket with clinical efficiency. Rena froze, her eyes widening as he started stripping off a rigid, strangely textured vest underneath. It wasn't a fashion choice; it was a tactical piece reinforced with ballistic fibers. The cold metal of the back buckles gave a soft, metallic clink as he unfastened them.
"Coat off," Ren commanded. No room for argument.
Dazed, Rena obeyed. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons of her heavy coat, eventually exposing her blouse beneath.
Ren stepped into her personal space, the vest still radiating his body heat. He draped the armor over her shoulders, positioning it to shield her vital organs. When his hands brushed her skin, he didn't hesitate.
His fingers, calloused from years of the blade, gripped her shoulders. He spun her around in one fluid motion to tighten the Velcro straps at her sides. Rena could feel the sheer, controlled power in his touch—a grip that didn't bruise, yet demanded absolute submission.
"What about... the guests in the hall? My friend is still out there," Rena whispered, her voice cracking with anxiety.
"They'll be fine. My people are already in position," Ren muttered as he adjusted the fit over her chest, pressing the plate once to ensure there were no gaps. They were so close that the faint trace of his scent filled her senses.
"Their primary weapons aren't rifles, but we can't take chances," he murmured. His hands moved to help her button her coat back up, smoothing the fabric so the armor remained invisible. His movements were mechanical, like a soldier checking his gear before a breach.
Once the vest was hidden, Ren threw his jacket back on over his black shirt. Without the vest, his silhouette looked leaner, more dangerous, and free to move. He grabbed a black cloth mask from a shelf and shoved it toward her.
"Wear this. You're going to be a 'special' hostage I found hiding. Just follow my lead."
Rena nodded, steeling herself.
"Oh, one more thing..." Ren turned back to her. "Can you drive?"
Rena blinked, stunned by the sudden pivot. But seeing the demand for certainty in his eyes, she nodded firmly.
The main hall was a graveyard of broken porcelain and upturned tables. The guests, including Nadia, Clarissa, and Erebos, were forced onto their knees, hands bound. Nadia was fuming; she squeezed her tied wrists, cursing the fact that she only had a wooden practice sword today. And Rena was still missing.
A man in a sharp suit and a black mask stepped forward, his voice booming through a small megaphone. "We are Higanbana!" he declared. "Our target is the former Minister. Give us what we want, and the rest of you might actually make it home alive."
The man pointing the megaphone gestured toward a frail, middle-aged man.
Behind the corridor wall, Ren adjusted his mask and nearly scoffed. Higanbana? The sheer noisiness of it was insulting. His pride felt bruised seeing these amateurs drag the name through the dirt.
He glanced at Rena. She was pale. He had to make sure she didn't break character or bolt when the curtain went up.
With a calmness that defied the chaos, Ren's fingers moved swiftly to undo the silk tie around his neck.
"What are you doing?" Rena hissed in a panic as he grabbed her wrists.
Ren wound the tie around her hands, securing them with a knot that was tight enough to look real but loose enough to not chafe. From a distance, they looked like a man securing a fleeing captive.
"We don't do things halfway," Ren said coldly. His voice was a flat line, devoid of fear.
Rena was pinned by the scent of his expensive cologne and the suffocating tension. As he pulled the knot tight, his face was inches from hers, his amber eyes focused entirely on the task—showing no trace of nerves.
Satisfied, Ren reached behind his back and drew a blade from a hidden sheath.
Rena's breath hitched. This wasn't a silver pocketknife a nobleman would use for cigars. The blade was a void—matte black carbon that swallowed the light. A weapon designed for the silence of the kill, not for show.
Ren's grip on the hilt was so natural it looked like an extension of his own hand. No hesitation. No tremor.
Rena's heart hammered against her ribs—not just because of the gunmen, but because of the man beside her. Who is he? she wondered frantically. He was supposed to be elite blood, a young lord, but the way he held that steel... the way he vanished into the shadows... that wasn't the behavior of a cornered aristocrat.
Ren stepped in behind her. Without a word, he hooked his right arm around her neck, pulling her back flush against his chest. With a calculated, aggressive flourish, his left hand brought the black blade up, pressing the cold edge right under her jaw.
Rena gasped, her lungs seizing as she felt the carbon steel bite into her sensitive skin. Even though her brain knew it was an act, her survival instincts screamed; her body began to shake violently.
Ren leaned in close to her ear, his voice barely a ghost over the noise of the hall.
"Focus on the role," he whispered. The warmth of a nobleman was gone—replaced by a tone that was arctic and absolute. "Trust my blade."
Rena could feel her pulse thumping against the cold steel. When Ren applied a fraction more pressure—just for the visual—she closed her eyes. The terror was so real she forgot this was the same man who had tied her hands with silk just moments ago.
In an instant, Ren's aura shifted. He shoved Rena forward, dragging her out of the shadows into the blinding light of the hall.
"Boss! I found another one trying to hide in the cans!" Ren barked. His voice was now hoarse and guttural, stripped of all refinement. It was a performance so perfect it made the hair on Rena's neck stand up.
Nadia flinched, her breath hitching as she watched her friend being dragged like livestock. Beside her, Clarissa was as still as a frozen lake. Her own ties had been loose for minutes, thanks to a trick Erebos had taught her. She whispered, barely audible, to Nadia: "Don't panic. This is the Young Master's play."
Nadia stared at Clarissa, her face a mask of confusion, panic, and wary realization.
The lead terrorist laughed at the sight of Rena. "Hahaha! Good work! Bring her and the Minister to the private room. We'll negotiate in there!"
"While I enjoy this little beauty as my bonus!" the leader added with a sickening, lecherous leer.
Behind his mask, Ren's jaw tightened. That sentence had just shortened the man's life expectancy to a matter of seconds. But he had to wait.
The leader jerked his chin at a subordinate, who grabbed the trembling former Minister and dragged him toward a carved oak door in the corner—the soundproof private room.
Ren yanked Rena's arm, forcing her to stumble roughly to keep up the facade. But as they entered the narrow shadows of the hallway leading to the room, Ren pulled her closer. Under the heavy thud of the terrorists' boots, he leaned into her ear.
"The moment the door closes, you and the old man turn to the wall. Cover your eyes and ears," he whispered, his voice returning to its true state—cold, sharp, and final. "Do not turn around until I touch your shoulder. If you see what happens next, you'll never sleep a full night for the rest of your life."
Rena could only manage a stiff nod. Her heart was thudding so loud she feared the gunmen would hear it.
Click.
The door was shut and locked from the inside by one of the gunmen. The room fell into an abrupt, heavy silence, cutting off the chaos outside. The terrorist leader turned with a hungry sneer hidden behind his mask, ready to bark out a filthier command.
He didn't notice that the man he thought was his own subordinate had just dropped the mask of subservience.
Ren glanced at Rena—a silent cue. Without a word, Rena grabbed the Minister's arm, pulling the old man to face the wooden wall, shutting her eyes tight.
Behind them, the temperature of the room seemed to plummet to zero. The sound of Ren taking one long, steady breath was the last human thing she heard before the shadow of the assassin began to dance in the dark.