Dalton Saint woke with a mouth full of ash and the kind of headache that made him wish he hadn’t woken at all.

Sunlight had the nerve to pour through the blackout curtains he swore he’d closed. His sheets were a mess of sweat and silk and someone else’s perfume. A woman was still in the bed — long legs, smeared makeup, limbs tangled like she belonged there. He didn’t remember her name. Didn’t care.

His body ached in that too-familiar way — not just from sex, but from the weight of another night spent avoiding sleep and drinking anything but water.

Then came the knock. Short. Sharp.

He didn’t answer. The door opened anyway.

Footsteps entered the penthouse — clean, unfazed, echoing through a space littered with guitar picks, crushed cigarette packs, and empty bottles that still sparkled like trophies. Dalton stayed still, listening.

This one walked like they had a reason to be here.

He cracked an eye open.

New face.

Dalton sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “You’re not the last one,” he muttered under his breath.

He sat up slowly, wincing. Pain behind his eyes. Dull throb in his ribs. Could’ve been from last night, could’ve been older. Hard to tell anymore.

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugged it back, lit a cigarette from the nightstand with a practiced flick of his lighter. First inhale of the day… dirty, bitter, perfect.

Fourth one this year. He knew the drill.

New assistant. Same doomed mission.

He rose from the bed fully naked, unapologetically himself, stepping barefoot over a crumpled Barbed Halo tee on the floor. The logo was cracked and faded.

Dalton took a drag and watched them. Not with interest exactly, but with calculation. Curiosity, maybe. A little bit of warning. Another pretty face meant to hold his schedule together with a smile and a spreadsheet.

It wouldn’t last.

It never did.