SHOT BY AN FBI, LOVED BY A BILLIONAIRE

It started like any other Thursday. Gray skies, burnt coffee, and another round of encrypted files I wasn’t able to understand. That’s the thing about working as a data analyst for one of New York’s most discreet private security firms: nobody ever tells you what you’re really looking at. You just sort, categorize, and flag anomalies. No questions asked. I have become good at not asking questions. My desk was a mess of USB drives, security tokens, and files with codenames I’d long given nicknames to. The one that morning was marked Silent Echo. It was cleaner than the others, too clean. No flagged metadata, no pings in the tracking system, just rows of numbers hidden under meaningless headers. But something about it prickled my nerves. I leaned back in my chair and rubbed the tension from my neck. The rain tapped against the narrow window beside me, casting soft shadows across my desk. Another long day. Another ignored email from HR. Another quiet, safe life that I thought would last. Then the power flickered. At first, I thought it was just the storm. Then the emergency lights kicked in. My heart slowed, a cold, creeping sense of wrongness curling up my spine. My phone buzzed. *Unknown Number: *Get out. Now. I stared at it. The hairs on my arm lifted. Who would... Glass shattered. Screams followed. Then chaos. Gunshots. One. Two. Three. I hit the ground before I even understood what was happening. My chair fell beside me, papers fluttering like snow in the stale office air. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard heavy boots, shouting, someone crying. My body was locked in panic. Move, Quinn. Move. But then, I saw him.Black tactical gear. Unmistakable federal issue. And a gun, aimed straight at me. “Don’t shoot!” I screamed, arms raised, heart thundering. Too late. The pain was white-hot. Searing. Like my shoulder had been split in two. I collapsed, choking on air, my vision swimming. The last thing I saw was his face, sharp jawline, cold, calculating eyes. A flicker of something human in the way his mouth twitched, like regret had arrived too late. And then darkness swallowed me whole. I woke up in a hospital bed with restraints on my wrists. The beep of a heart monitor was the only sound. Outside the small, square window, the city blurred beneath a layer of storm clouds. My mouth was dry. My shoulder burned like hell. Then the door opened. He walked in. The man who shot me. “I’m Agent James Anderson,” he said. His voice was low. Controlled. The kind of tone meant to comfort and intimidate at the same time. “I know who you are,” I rasped. Something flickered in his eyes...guilt, maybe. Or pity. “You’re not under arrest,” he added. But you are under federal protection. For now.“Protection from what?” I demanded, struggling against the restraints. He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me like I was a problem he couldn’t solve. “There’s a file,” he finally said. Once you flagged two days ago. It set off something bigger than either of us could have predicted. The people behind it, Quinn, know your name. I froze. My heart stuttered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” “No. But you know something. Or you will, once they come for you.” The next few hours blurred into medical checkups, guarded conversations, and half-truths. James never left the room. He watched me like he was waiting for me to explode. Or vanish. He was always in control except for that brief, flickering second when our eyes locked and something broke in his expression. Regret. Real. Raw. But regret doesn’t undo bullets. By the second night, I couldn’t sleep. My shoulder throbbed, my mind raced. I wanted answers. I wanted to go home. So I pulled out the IV, slipped past the nurse, and stumbled toward the elevator. But just as the doors slid open. A hand yanked me back. It wasn’t James. This man was taller, dressed in a tailored suit, eyes darker than night. His grip was firm, unyielding, but not cruel. “Quinn Callister,” he said with an accent I couldn’t place. “If you want to live, come with me.” I blinked. “Who...” “Name’s Stephano. Let’s go.” He didn’t wait. And maybe I should have screamed. Maybe I should’ve fought. But something in his voice, something in the way he looked at me like he already knew me, made me follow. And just like that, I was no longer in the FBI’s custody. I was in his world. And there was no going back.