𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏
Pairing: ex!FBIagent!Chan x FBIagent!afab!reader, slow burn, strangers to reluctant allies, nonidol au
Synopsis: he died. Everyone believed he did. But you found out. And whether you like it or not, keeping you alive is now his job.
Warnings: violence, onomatopoeia, switching btwn chris and chan (but its the same person), russian (there will be translations), mullet chan...
a/n: I liked this piece a lot actually, and I hope you do. dw, there will be more parts (relax...), uhh my longest so far? 5k words? yeahh..if you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't.
next...
Christopher Bang is dead.
The world had been convinced that Christopher Bang was dead.
His funeral was quiet, attended only by select FBI agents and a few grieving colleagues. A closed casket. No family to claim him. A legend reduced to whispers in the hallways of Quantico. They said he died in an operation gone wrong, a noble sacrifice to protect the country. Christopher Bang had never been an ordinary FBI agent. He was a prodigy—recruited young, trained hard, and shaped into one of the Bureau’s finest operatives. His reputation was legendary, whispered in briefing rooms and hushed conversations. He was the kind of agent you sent when failure wasn’t an option. His career had been built on precision, unwavering loyalty, and an unshakable sense of justice. He wasn’t just good at his job; he was the job. His instincts were lethal, his mind sharper than the blade he always carried strapped to his thigh. From high-profile kidnappings to dismantling international crime syndicates, Chan had seen it all. And for a while, he believed in the mission. Believed in the Bureau.
Until he didn’t.
The cracks had always been there, but Chris only started noticing them after Operation Nightfall. Nightfall was supposed to be routine—an undercover mission to infiltrate an arms smuggling ring with direct ties to high-ranking officials. The Bureau had been tracking them for years, their operations spanning across borders, feeding civil wars, and keeping global conflict at a steady boil. This was supposed to be the mission that brought them down. Chan had spent months buried deep in the criminal underworld, assuming the alias of a ruthless gunrunner. He had earned their trust, gathered intelligence, and secured evidence that could take down some of the most powerful players in the game including politicians and government officials who were supposed to be on his side.
That was his mistake.
Because when the time came for the bust, nothing went as planned. The moment his team stormed the compound; they were met with bullets. Not from the criminals, but from their own men. The FBI’s tactical unit, the very people meant to back him up, had turned their guns on him and his informant. It was a hit. Chan barely made it out alive. His informant, his only lead to the bigger players and his best friend, was executed in front of him, and he had been left for dead in the chaos. A staged accident. A casualty of war. But Chan had survived. Wounded, disoriented, and betrayed, he disappeared into the underground before the Bureau could finish the job.
It took weeks for him to recover, to put the pieces together. The truth was uglier than he could have imagined. The people he had trusted had sold him out to protect their interests. He had two choices: fight back and risk everything, or disappear.
Chan chose to disappear.
Faking his death wasn’t easy, it never was but it was the only way to move undetected. He had to erase Christopher Bang from existence. Burn his past. Cut ties. He left behind no body, no trace, nothing for the Bureau to track. The world mourned him, but he watched from the shadows. And from those shadows, he did what he did best.
The glow of your desk lamp cast long shadows across the scattered case flies, illuminating worn folders that had become your life for the past three weeks. The first time you saw Christopher Bang; he was nothing more than a file on your desk. You didn’t mean to stumble onto his case. It had been a late night at the office, one of those quiet, lonely shifts where the air smelled like stale coffee and ink-stained fingertips. Fewer voices, more room to think. Most agents had gone home, the bullpen dimly lit by the glow of monitors. You had been assigned to a different case—routine arms trafficking, nothing out of the ordinary. But in the midst of your research, his name popped up not once and that didn’t sit right with you. At first, it was a footnote. A long-forgotten alias linked to an offshore account. It should have been nothing just another dead man’s forgotten assets. But then, the details started to unravel, one thread at a time. The account had been accessed recently. Money had moved. And whoever had moved it knew exactly what they were doing.
Your fingers tapped rhythmically against the keyboard of your system as you scrolled through classified financial records, piecing together a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. The deeper you dug, the more the numbers twisted into a dead end. As you combed through the financial web, his name resurfaced again. Your breath hitched.
“Ok, what the actual fuck?”
The world buried that name two years ago but here it was, tied to a forgotten alias buried in offshore transactions. “Thats impossible.” You turned in your chair toward the stack of classified files and papers piled on your other desk. Quickly, your flipped through the pages and pushed aside other papers. The alias wasn’t obvious, Chan had been careful but when you spotted it, you knew. The name was one you had come across years ago during a different case, linked to a false identity the Bureau once used for deep-cover work. An alias that had supposedly died along with him. Yet here it was alive and well, funnelling money through ghost accounts. The neatly organised system you prided yourself on was gone, replaced by a frantic need to confirm what you already feared.
“Come on, come on...” you muttered, flipping again past cases that had long since gone cold. The scent of ink and the faint musk of time filled your senses as you pulled open another manila folder, the edges frayed from years of handling. And when you saw it, your pulse spiked.
FBI CLASSIFIED: CONFIDENTIAL – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
BANG, CHRISTOPHER CHAN
Stamped in bold red ink across the top was a single word that now could’ve been a lie.
DECEASED
Swallowing hard, you spread the contents across your desk. A black and white photo of Chan stared back at you, his badge clipped neatly to his suit, a small smirk playing at the edge of his lips.
Name: Bang, Christopher
Alias(es): Phantom, K-Strike, Shadow OP
Date Of Birth: October 3, 1997
Place of Birth: Sydney, Australia
Nationality: Australian/Korean
Last Known Rank: Senior Special Agent – FBI covert Operations Unit
Specialization: Deep cover infiltration, counterterrorism, tactical reconnaissance, financial crimes, high-risk asset extraction
Status: Deceased (as per Bureau records, declared KIA during Operation Nightfall, 2023)
You glanced through the pages of his physical and psychological evaluation, very impressed by his results. On his classified operations list, Nightfall was disclosed as a failed mission declaring his KIA, which should have solidified his name as a martyr in the agency’s war against organised crime. People who die in the field don’t get forgotten so quickly. When you reached the last page however, a small text at the bottom was handwritten which stood out to you;
FILE STATUS: ARCHIVED
NOTICE: Any activity involving this alias or financial transactions linked to Agent Bang should be considered a breach of classified intelligence. Further investigation requires authorization from the Director’s Office.
Signed, M. Reynolds.
You grabbed his mission report, flipping through the pages searching for what you might have missed. Nightfall had always seemed too clean on paper. A mission that ended in disaster, yet conveniently wrapped itself up without loose ends. No body recovered. No autopsy. No real proof of death, only ‘witness reports’; a term that had been conveniently vague. You stomach twisted as you skimmed the list of operatives present during his last assignment. A few familiar names, including higher-ups who were still active in the Bureau today. And one name in particular...
Deputy Director M. Reynolds.
You stiffened. Reynolds had been the one to officially close Chan’s case. If Chan had supposedly faked his death, Reynolds either knew about it or it was one of the reasons he disappeared in the first place.
The weight of the situation dwelled heavily on your chest. You weren’t just looking at a missing agents financial trail. You had reopened a case the Bureau had long since buried. And if you weren’t careful, you’d be buried alongside it.
Deputy Marcus Reynolds was once one of the most respected figures in the Bureau a man who built his career from bringing down high-profile syndicates. But Chan had seen what others hadn’t: the cracks in his so-called justice. Their relationship had always been tense. Reynolds saw Chan as an asset useful but too unpredictable. Chan, on the other hand, never trusted Reynolds, especially after noticing discrepancies in classified reports. The deeper Chan dug, the cleared it became Reynolds wasn’t just complicit in the corruption; he was orchestrating it. His last mission, Nightfall, had been an evident setup. The intel had been too clean and easy. As if someone wanted him in the field open and vulnerable. But when it went sideways, Chan realized too late, that he was the target. And he had to disappear.
Reynolds closed the case within 72 hours, an unusually fast decision for a high-ranking agent’s death. Because if Christopher Bang was dead, he couldn’t expose what he knew.
The next few weeks were a blur of late nights and hushed conversations. You moved quietly, off the books, following leads that didn’t exist. It was dangerous work digging where you weren’t supposed to. But you had always trusted your instincts, and your instincts told you something was very wrong. You kept this new discovery to yourself of course, exposing it may open multiple Pandora’s boxes that couldn’t be closed. You didn’t know why you chased him. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something darker, the need to understand why a man like that would fake his own death. Or maybe, deep down, you knew that whatever he had been running from was still out there. The breakout came unexpectedly. Against the dim glow of your laptop casting shadows across your apartment walls. While cross-referencing transaction time stamps with recent disappearances, you noticed a pattern- each financial movement coincided with a known safehouse burning to the ground. It was subtle, almost untraceable, but not for you. When you saw it you knew. Christopher was surviving. Amongst all the locations you had scouted one hadn’t been touched yet. An old decommissioned safehouse outside the city; a place you remembered from your early years at the Bureau. Officially, it had been abandoned after an op went sideways and unofficially could be Chan’s hideout. If he was still alive.
You grabbed your gear- a discreet sidearm, burner phone, flashlight, and the flash drive with all the evidence. The drive that proved the Bureaus corruption against Chan and why he had to disappear. The drive that could get you both killed.
The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth as you navigated the overgrown path toward the building. It stood hidden between skeletal trees, its exterior worn by time, but the security measures were still intact. A rusted fence. Motion-triggered floodlights ones that shouldn’t work but flickered on as soon as you stepped closer. He was here you were so sure of it. Your breath came shallow as you approached the side entrance, pressing against the damp wall. The door had been reinforced new locks, fresh welding along the hinges. Not abandoned at all. He’s careful.
You reached into your pocket, pulling out a small USB device. It wasn’t the evidence neither was it just a tool; it was bait. Plugging it into the old security panel, you let it do its job—overloading the system for a brief five-second window. It was all the time you needed.
Click. The lock disengaged. Heart pounding, you stepped inside. The interior smelled of dust and aged wood, but there were signs of recent use—a makeshift bed, scattered papers, a half-empty glass of water on the counter. A map was pinned to the wall, red markings circling names you recognized. People who had gone missing. People the Bureau wouldn’t miss. People Chan had eliminated. Then, movement.
A whisper of sound behind you. Before you could react, an arm wrapped around your throat, pressing just hard enough to warn, not to harm. A gun was at your temple, the cold steel sending a shiver down your spine.
"Who sent you?" The voice was deep, familiar. You swallowed hard. "You did." A pause. His grip didn’t loosen, but he didn’t pull the trigger either.
"You should have stayed away," he murmured.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Dark. Calculating. But underneath it all—a flicker of something else. Something human. "I couldn’t," you whispered. "Because you didn’t."
A sharp exhale—barely a whisper—was the only warning you had before you were tackled to the ground. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs as your wrists were wrenched behind your back, pinned in an unbreakable grip. The cold press of a gun barrel met the back of your skull, and the weight of a solid, muscular frame held you immobile against the dusty floor.
"One last time," a deep voice murmured above you, low and lethal. "Who sent you?"
You gritted your teeth, twisting slightly beneath him. "No one." A pause. The weight above you shifted slightly, but the gun didn’t move.
"Third times a charm, princess. Try again."
His voice was cold, but something about it struck you—not just familiarity, but certainty. You had found him.
"Bang Chan," you rasped. "I found you." That was the wrong thing to say. The grip on your wrists tightened, his knee pressing into your lower back with just enough force to make your ribs groan. You clenched your jaw to keep from gasping. "Yeah?" he mused, almost mocking. "And how exactly did you manage that?"
You sucked in a breath, your pulse thrumming against the barrel of his gun. "Your offshore accounts," you admitted. "One of your old aliases popped up in my case files. I traced the transactions—saw the pattern. You're covering your tracks, but you missed one."
A slow exhale. He was processing. Then, suddenly, he yanked you up. Your legs scrambled for footing as he hauled you to your feet with an ease that sent a shiver down your spine. He spun you around, and for the first time, you got a good look at him. His hair was longer now—jet black, damp at the ends, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. It fell into his sharp eyes, barely concealing the raw intensity burning behind them. The years had refined him, hardened him—his jawline sharper, his muscles defined beneath the tight black shirt clinging to his frame. He adjusted his grip on his gun, holding it lazily by his side but never out of reach.
But what struck you the most was the way he was looking at you. Like he was deciding whether to kill you or let you live. "Prove it," he ordered, his voice softer but no less dangerous. Your breath hitched. "I have proof of the Bureau’s corruption. On a flash drive. I brought it with me." His gaze flickered—just for a moment—before hardening again. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then abruptly released you, shoving you back slightly. "Don’t follow me next time," he muttered before turning away.
Your heart still pounded as you watched him move, muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he returned to whatever he had been doing before your arrival.
You took a step forward. "You're just going to pretend this didn’t happen?"
"Yes."
"Are you serious right now?"
"Yes."
Your frustration flared. "So, what, you’re just gonna keep hiding in the shadows? Killing off whoever you think deserves it?" Chan finally looked at you again, his expression unreadable. "That’s what ghosts do." A beat of silence stretched between you before he turned away again. "You should go back to where you came from," he said, voice quieter this time.
But you didn’t move. Because now that you had found him, there was no way in hell you were letting him disappear again.
Chan had stripped off his tight black shirt, revealing the sharp, battle-worn lines of his torso—faint scars cutting across his chest and shoulders like remnants of a past he didn’t care to remember. He pulled a clean, loose shirt over his head before dropping into his chair, exhaling as he propped his combat-booted feet onto the wooden desk. A plastic bag of heated ramen sat beside him, the faint steam curling up as he ripped open the top. The scent of instant broth filled the air, and with a slow, almost lazy motion, he dug his chopsticks in, slurping up a mouthful without a care in the world.
But when he turned his head, there you were. Still standing. Arms crossed. Stubborn as ever.
His chewing slowed. "Why the hell are you still here?"
"I'm not leaving without an explanation." Your voice was firm, unwavering. Chan let out an amused scoff, flicking his eyes away as he continued eating. "Not my problem."
"It is," you shot back. "You disappeared. You faked your own death. People thought you were murdered, Chan."
His expression didn’t change. He didn’t even pause, still chewing. "And?"
"You don't get to just vanish without an answer," she pressed, stepping forward. "You were one of the best agents we had. Then one day, you’re gone? What was I supposed to think?" Chan finally lowered his chopsticks, resting them on the rim of the ramen cup. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he exhaled slowly through his nose. Then, with a lazy, almost bored movement, he reached for the gun beside him. The soft click of the chamber sent a chill down your spine.
Without lifting his feet from the desk, he cocked the gun and aimed it directly at you. "You should go," he murmured, voice laced with quiet threat.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t back down. "You’re not going to shoot me." Chan tilted his head slightly, something dark flickering in his eyes. And then—
BANG.
The sound shattered through the room. A sharp sting cut across her cheek as the bullet tore through the window behind her, the glass shattering into a thousand shards. A thin line of warmth traced down her skin—a graze. He had aimed for the perfect near miss. Your breath hitched, heart hammering as she stared at him in disbelief.
Chan twirled the gun in his fingers before leveling it back at you, still slouched in his chair.
"I don’t bluff, darling," he murmured, lips curling into a smirk.
The weight of his gaze pinned you to the spot, daring you to make your next move. But you wernt going anywhere. And by the way Chan’s lips curled into a smirk, he knew too. The silence stretched between both of you, thick and suffocating only broken by the soft plink of glass shards hitting the floor behind you.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t take a single step back. Instead, you exhaled sharply, leveling your gaze with his, voice steady. "Fine then," she said, brushing a thumb over the fresh graze on her cheek. "I guess I’ll just go back and tell Reynolds where you are. Let him know his little ghost isn’t as dead as everyone thinks—"
The reaction was immediate. Chan’s boots hit the floor with a solid thud as he swung his feet off the desk. His once lazy posture vanished as he stood, slow and deliberate, the air around him shifting into something darker. His expression didn’t change—no anger, no frustration—just a cold calculation in his eyes as he started toward her.
"You see, that’s where you make your first mistake." His voice was smooth, deceptively calm, as he took another step forward. "You think Reynolds is the one pulling the strings."
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond. Chan smirked. "Your second mistake? Threatening me. You don’t have the leverage you think you do, sweetheart." Another step. He was close now, towering over her. She could see the sharp lines of his face, the way the dim light cast shadows beneath his jawline.
"And your third mistake?" He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking down as he scoffed. "Letting me get this close."
She stiffened, but he didn’t move—just watched her, eyes scanning every inch of her like he was reading her next move before she even made it. Then, his voice dropped lower.
"How long have you been in the agency?"
She swallowed, keeping her stance firm. "Five years."
"Hm." He studied her, gaze lingering on hers a moment too long. "And in those five years, did you ever stop to wonder why you care so much about this?" She narrowed her eyes. "Because you disappeared. Because none of this makes sense, and every time I get close to an answer, another door shuts in my face."
Chan hummed, considering her words. His gaze flickered between her eyes like he was searching for something.
"And?" he pressed, voice barely above a whisper now.
She exhaled. "And because you were one of us. One of the best. If they turned on you, who’s to say they won’t turn on me next?"
That made him pause. For the first time since she walked in, something flickered across his expression—something almost unreadable. He was quiet for a moment, the distant sound of the city outside the only thing between them.
Then, in a tone laced with something far heavier than before, he murmured, "They already have."
Chan’s gaze flickered back to her, something sharp settling behind his dark eyes. "What’s your name?"
You hesitated for only a second before responding. “Y/N.” He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he walked back toward his desk. Chan exhaled, running a hand through his hair before turning his attention back to her. "Tell me something. Did you tell anyone about this little research project of yours?"
You straightened. "No."
He let out another humourless chuckle. "You should’ve left it alone. Left me alone. Whatever you found, whatever little breadcrumbs you were following, you should’ve buried them. I was doing just fine in the dark." Your jaw clenched. "I'd rather work under the right leaders than serve corruption."
He stopped, tilting his head slightly. He was about to respond when—
A voice. Muffled, hushed yells from outside. His entire posture snapped into something rigid, head whipping toward the sound before his gaze cut back to you, something deadly brewing beneath his calm exterior. "You cleared your tracks, didn’t you?" His tone was laced with sarcasm, but his eyes told a different story, survival mode kicking in.
"I did," you shot back, but even as you said it, her stomach twisted. Had you been wrong? Had you been followed? Chan scoffed, already moving. "Of course you did."
Then, instinct kicked in. He grabbed a duffel bag from beneath the desk, moving swiftly, shoving in stacks of cash, fake passports, and a few flash drives you barely caught a glimpse of. He zipped the bag, yanking open a drawer and pulling out two guns, checking the clips before tucking them into his waistband. The voices outside grew closer. Chan turned to her, jaw tightening. "See what you’ve caused?" Before she could respond,
CRACK!
A bullet shattered through the window. Her body froze for half a second, but Chan was faster. He yanked you down, his grip firm as another round of shots rang out, tearing through the walls. "You just had to come looking for ghosts, didn’t you?" His breath was hot against her ear, voice low and edged with frustration.
You didn’t have time to argue. Not when the next shot nearly clipped the spot where she was just standing. The sound of heavy boots against concrete echoed through the abandoned building, growing closer with each passing second. Mixed in with the rapid orders were voices speaking in clipped Russian. Chan’s body went rigid.
"Чистите здание!" Sweep the building!
His jaw locked. His fingers twitched around the grip of his gun, the muscle in his temple ticking as he processed. Russians. He cursed under his breath. His gaze flicked to her. "Stay close, don’t do anything stupid." You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t give you the chance.
With practiced ease, he slung the duffel over his shoulder, grabbed your wrist, and yanked your toward the back of the room where the garage was. Another voice cut through the air. "Если увидите его—убить сразу." If you see him—kill him immediately.
Chan’s grip on you tightened. "Move.”
The gunfire had stopped, for a while but Chan knew better than to think they were safe. The silence was worse—it meant they were moving, repositioning. The Russians didn’t shoot blindly; they cornered their targets like hunters. He pulled her through the darkened hallways of the safe house. The air was thick with dust, the only light coming from the flickering emergency bulbs that barely held power. His pace was quick, calculated, and she had no choice but to keep up.
They burst into the garage, Chan’s boots crunching against the concrete floor as he beelined for the nearest car. He didn’t care which one just one with gas and working tires. He threw the duffel bag into the backseat, yanked the driver’s door open, and turned to you.
“Get in.”
You hesitated. Only for a second. But he wasn’t in the mood for second-guessing.
“Now.”
There was something about the sharpness in his voice, the raw edge of urgency, that made you obey. You slid into the passenger seat, barely buckling up before the roar of the engine cut through the silence. Chan reversed so fast that the tires screeched, burning rubber as he whipped the car around and sped toward the exit. The second they burst onto the empty road, the garage door behind them rattled. A second too late—the Russians had reached the safe house, but they were already gone.
His hands tightened around the wheel, jaw clenching as he forced his breathing to steady. But Y/N wasn’t stupid you saw the shift in his composure. The rigid tension in his shoulders, the flicker of something dangerous behind his eyes.
“Who were they?” you asked, your voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline.
Chan didn’t answer immediately. He exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Since I became a ghost and not dead, someone put a bounty on my head.”
“A bounty?” She blinked, processing. “By who?” He hesitated, just for a beat. Then, his lips curled into something bitter. “A former Russian cartel.”
Silence.
“Wait? A Russian mafia?!”
Chan rolled his eyes, his grip flexing on the steering wheel. “Oh, don’t sound so shocked, sweetheart.” You turned in your seat, still trying to wrap her head around it. “You mean to tell me you pissed off the Russians? The same ones who wipe out entire families without blinking? And you thought, what? That they’d just let you go?”
He shot her a look, unimpressed. “I did die, remember?” He tapped his fingers against the wheel. “They weren’t supposed to know I was still breathing.”
“But they do know,” she pressed. “No shit.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should’ve expected it.”
She stared at him for a moment, piecing it together. “What did you do to them?”
Chan didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there. The headlights illuminated the stretch of road ahead, but he wasn’t seeing it—his mind was elsewhere.
“Something they don’t forgive,” he murmured. And somehow, that was more unsettling than anything else.
The road stretched endlessly before them, a dark ribbon of asphalt cutting through the night. The drive was silent. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the car’s frame and the distant wail of sirens in the city. Chan’s hands remained steady on the wheel, his foot pressing just enough on the gas to keep them moving fast but unnoticed. The hum of the engine filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of headlights from distant cars.
Then, without looking at you, he asked, “So, are you willing to become a ghost, just like me?” His voice was low, unreadable.
You turned to him, your brows furrowing slightly. “What?” Chan exhaled through his nose, still keeping his eyes ahead. “You found me. Which means others can, too.” His fingers tapped against the wheel, slow, deliberate. “Now that you know I’m alive, you’re at risk.”
You let the weight of his words sink in.
“If you want answers,” he continued, “there’s no going back. You either disappear, like I did, or you keep living with the lie that I’m dead.” Silence settled between them. The reality of the situation pressed against you, suffocating in its finality.
You didn’t know what to say.
All you wanted was the truth—why he disappeared, why his name kept surfacing in places it shouldn’t. But now, you were tangled in something far more dangerous.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “I just… I just want to know the truth behind everything.”
Chan scoffed under his breath. “Truth comes at a price.”
You turned back to him, watching the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
And for the first time, you wondered if you were ready to pay it.
Chan's grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles pale in the dim glow of the dashboard. His mind was running a mile a minute—running through every possible reason why they had found him so easily, why she had been so careless.
Or maybe… she hadn't been careless.
Maybe they were watching her before she even found him.
He pulled into the parking lot of an old roadside motel, one of those places where no one asked questions as long as you paid in cash. The neon sign flickered above them, casting an eerie red glow over the cracked pavement. He killed the engine, but neither of you moved for a moment.
Finally, he turned to you, his expression unreadable. "Here’s the deal, Y/N," he said, voice low. "You have two choices. You stay here tonight, in this room with me, and by morning, you’re gone. You forget you ever found me, forget what you saw, and go back to playing by the agency’s rules." He let the words settle before continuing.
"Or…" he leaned in slightly, eyes sharp, "if you're actually ready for this life, if you’re ready to stop working under men like Reynolds and start chasing the real truth—you stay until morning."
A pause.
"But if you stay, there’s no going back."
You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a loaded. Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you refused to show any hesitation. You had risked too much and come too far. He was giving you a way out, to turn back and pretend none of this ever happened. Btu you couldn’t do that.
“You think came al this way just to walk away now?” you finally said, arms crossed as you met his gaze head-on.
Amusement flickered in Chan’s eyes. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he muttered.
“No,” you shot back. “I don’t.”
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