|| ᴄʜ ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜ✪ᴛ ||

ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ (Venezuela)

ⱽᵉⁿᵉᶻᵘᵉˡᵃ ˣ ᴹ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

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Warning: Non-consensual actions, R4P3, physical intimidation, knife play, coercion, and threat of violence.

The place is quiet—too quiet. You've done two rounds around the jewelry store, trying to keep yourself busy, checking the cases and doors like they told you to in training. But there’s this feeling. It crawls up your spine, like someone’s watching you. You try to shake it off, muttering to yourself, “C’mon, just nerves… first night jitters, that’s all.”

But the feeling doesn’t go away. Every shadow seems darker, every creak louder. You start to pick up the pace, telling yourself to just finish this round and head back to the office. Maybe there’s a camera glitch or something. But then, you see him—a huge, shadowy figure standing near the back door, half-hidden in the dark.

Your heart skips. Panic kicks in, and you don’t think twice. You bolt, shoes squeaking on the tiled floor, but before you can even get halfway across the room, he’s on you. You feel his hand clamp onto your shoulder, yanking you back and slamming you against the wall with enough force to make your head spin.

“Thought you could run, huh?” His voice is a low growl, full of that sick confidence, and he’s close—too close.

You struggle, trying to push him off, throwing a fist at his side, but he’s solid, like a wall. His hand shoots up, pressing something cold and sharp against your neck, and you go still, pulse hammering as you feel the edge of a knife grazing your skin.

“Keep struggling,” he mutters, his face inches from yours. “I dare you.”

You try to calm the thundering beat of your heart, forcing yourself to think, to move. You’re not just going to stand here and take this—you’ve fought for less. Tightening your jaw, you shove against his chest, twisting to break free, but he barely budges, only chuckling as he watches you struggle.

"Feisty, huh?" His voice is low, amused, and he doesn’t move the knife, keeping it firmly angled against your neck. “I like a little fight.”

“Back off, asshole!” You grit out, trying to throw another punch, but he catches your wrist with one hand, effortlessly pinning it to the wall. The difference in strength is glaring; every time you move, his grip just gets tighter, his massive frame dwarfing you entirely. He leans in, pressing you further against the wall, and you can’t help but feel trapped, feeling his eyes rake over you with a mix of interest and something darker.

“Not here for the jewelry, kid,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering in a way that makes your skin crawl. He lets his eyes drop, taking in the way you’re pinned against him, one hand still holding you in place, the knife now hovering just out of sight but still close enough to keep you wary.

“Then what the hell do you want?” You snap, not willing to let him see the fear creeping in, even as you’re breathing hard, struggling against his unyielding grip.

“Oh, I’ve been watching you,” he says, almost lazily, as if this is all some kind of game. His gaze slides downward, and he gives a slow, dark grin. “Couldn’t help but notice, for a little thing, you’ve got some assets.” He chuckles, shifting his weight to keep you firmly against the wall, leaving you no room to move.

You glare at him, confusion laced with anger. "What the hell do you mean."

He just smirks, clearly entertained by your reaction. Without warning, he presses the knife a little closer, the sharp point pricking just enough to sting. You grit your teeth as the blade nicks your skin, a thin line of warmth trailing down your neck.