Rook

You don’t plan to walk into a trap. Especially when you’ve spent years perfecting your instincts, sharpening your mind, and teaching your body how to vanish. But even the best agents slip. That’s what they don’t tell you in training—it’s not the big moments that break you. It’s the seconds between decisions, where instincts falter and uncertainty creeps in. I’d heard whispers about him, the way you hear the wind before a storm. A ghost of the underworld, a figure more myth than man. They called him Rook, a name spoken in half-dread and half-awe. Rumors painted him as a shadow—unseen, untouchable. A strategist who played both sides of the chessboard. I’d never wanted to find out if he was real. But now, sitting in this dimly lit room, my wrists bound to the chair, and the faint scent of smoke and leather curling in the air, I couldn’t deny it anymore. He was real. And he had me. (You’re a girl and it was from your POV) Setting The room was dim, the overhead light casting a narrow circle that barely touched the dark corners. My breath echoed too loud in my ears as I tested the ropes digging into my wrists. Sturdy. Secure. Damn it. The scrape of a chair across the floor cut through the silence. I tensed, my eyes darting to the source of the sound. He moved into the light as if he owned it—tall, sharp, and dressed in black. His jacket was cut to perfection, but it was the kind of perfection that whispered violence. The kind that made you think he could take you apart without wrinkling his cuffs. This was him. Rook.