Gabriella barely remembered how she made it home.
One moment she was sprinting down the street like her life depended on it—which it absolutely did—and the next, she was slamming her apartment door shut, panting like she'd just run a marathon with no training, no water, and definitely no dignity.
She pressed her back against the door.
Her heart thudded.
Her knees shook.
She slid down to the floor, hugging her legs.
"Congratulations, Gabriella," she whispered to herself. "You survived an arson attack and didn't even pee your pants. Growth!"
Her cat, Pumpkin, stared at her with judgmental orange eyes, as if unimpressed by her survival skills.
Gabriella crawled into bed fully clothed and passed out within seconds.
---
The next morning slapped her in the face with sunlight and memories.
"Oh no…" she whispered, bolting upright.
She grabbed her phone. Several news alerts flashed on-screen.
LOCAL RESTAURANT DESTROYED IN LATE-NIGHT ARSON ATTACK
WITNESSES POSSIBLY PRESENT, POLICE INVESTIGATING.
She groaned and covered her eyes.
She wasn't mentioned. Good.
Because she wasn't a witness.
Nope.
Not at all.
She was… she was an innocent bystander who happened to be blind, deaf, and stupid at the same time.
Right?
Pumpkin meowed judgmentally.
Gabriella paced the apartment, hands in her hair.
"Should I report it?" she muttered. "No. Yes. No! …Maybe?"
She imagined walking into a police station dramatically like they do in movies, slamming her hands on the counter and shouting, I SAW EVERYTHING!
Except she'd probably trip and break the counter.
"What if they find me? What if they chase me again? What if they light me on fire?! I still have things to accomplish. Like becoming famous. And giving Sally a reason to envy me."
Pumpkin flicked his tail.
"You're right," she sighed. "I have to report it."
She pressed her hands to her temples.
Images from last night kept flashing in her mind like a chaotic slideshow.
Her breathing picked up as her memory dragged her back to the moment she saw the men clearly.
The smoke.
The shattered window.
The flames roaring to life.
And then—their faces.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
One of them stepped into the streetlight first—the tall man with the steel-gray eyes, the one that looked like the leader. Even in the chaos, even with flames behind him and danger radiating off him like a warning sign, Gabriella had frozen.
Because good LORD.
His face was… sculpted.
Sharp jawline.
Messy dark hair.
That dangerous, cold expression that said: I've done worse than burn down restaurants and I'm not ashamed.
"Honestly," she whispered to herself, pressing a hand to her chest, "he had no right being that attractive while committing a crime. That's illegal too."
She shook her head rapidly, flustered.
"No. No. Focus, Gabriella. Criminal. Bad. Evil. Looks like a Greek god who chose violence as a hobby, but still bad."
Then another face flashed in her mind—the blonde one.
Light blonde hair shaved slightly on the sides, a jawline sharp enough to commit its own crimes, deep green eyes, tattoos on his neck, and the kind of smirk that said: I fight people for fun, and I'd win.
Gabriella groaned into her hands.
"Why do criminals get to look like supermodels? Why is that fair? Why can't they be ugly like villains are supposed to be? Why does the universe hate me?"
She stopped pacing and stared at her reflection in the microwave door.
Her hair was a mess.
Her hoodie was inside out.
Her face looked like someone surviving a five-day existential crisis.
And yet somehow… she was supposed to walk into a police station and calmly describe the jawline of a man she should not find attractive?
She closed her eyes.
In her mind, she saw the tall one—again.
The way he moved.
Sharp. Controlled.
Dangerous.
Powerful.
Then the blonde had turned toward her like a shadow stepping into the light.
When his gaze met hers, her lungs had forgotten their job.
Her brain had stopped working entirely.
Her legs had said: We're leaving NOW.
A shiver ran through her.
He saw me.
He had seen her.
Not just glanced.
Seen.
She swallowed.
She could almost hear his voice from the night before, that cold tone he used to talk to the tall one.
"I saw a shadow."
Her blood chilled.
"Okay! Nope! Never mind!" she yelped, covering her ears. "Not thinking about that".
She hopped in place anxiously.
"Why do villains get to be handsome?! Who approved this?!"
Pumpkin the cat meowed from across the room, unimpressed.
Gabriella exhaled hard.
Fine.
They were gorgeous.
In a terrifying, contradiction-of-everything-she-believed-in way.
But gorgeous or not…
"What they did was wrong," she whispered. "Beautiful men still go to jail."
Pumpkin blinked twice, which she took as agreement.
She grabbed her bag.
Her hands trembled.
Her stomach twisted.
Her imagination flashed with steel-gray eyes and flames.
"I have to report it," she whispered. "Someone could have been inside that restaurant. Someone could have been hurt. If I don't go… who will?"
She stood up straighter, forcing courage into her bones.
"They can be handsome," she said firmly, "and I can still do the right thing."
A tiny voice whispered back:
Even if the right thing might get you killed?
She swallowed.
"I'll take my chances," she said softly.
She dressed in the least suspicious clothes she owned—a pink hoodie and jeans.
She walked to the door…
Hand hovering over the knob…
Heart thudding…
Then she nodded to herself.
"Here goes nothing… please don't let me die."
And she stepped outside
—unaware of how deeply the men she remembered would soon entangle themselves in her fate.
---
The police station was more chaotic than she expected.
Phones rang nonstop. Officers yelled across desks. A man wearing a raccoon costume sat handcuffed to a chair.
Gabriella approached the front desk slowly.
A bored-looking officer with a donut in hand stared at her. "Yes?"
"I'm here to… um…" She lowered her voice. "Report something."
"You're gonna have to be specific, sweetheart."
She gulped. "I witnessed an arson attack."
The donut dropped.
"What?"
"Arson. Last night. Men. Fire. Boom. You know. Classic crime stuff."
The officer blinked. "You saw the suspects?"
"Yes."
"You remember what they look like?"
"Two of them. Kind of. Their facial features, I mean."
He stood up so fast his chair rolled backward and hit the raccoon man.
"Follow me."
They led her to a room where a sketch artist—a lanky man with wild hair and a coffee mug that said I'm Not Crying, You're Crying—waited with pencils.
"Alright," he said cheerfully. "Let's draw some criminals!"
Gabriella sat and took a deep breath.
"I didn't see all their faces clearly. But two of them I did."
"Great. Let's start with Criminal #1."
She nodded. "He was tall. Really tall. Like intimidating tall."
"Okay."
"He had dark hair. Short on the sides, messy on top. Strong jawline. Sharp cheekbones. And his eyes were… gray? No—steel-gray."
"So… scary pretty?"
"Yes! Exactly scary pretty."
The sketch artist scribbled rapidly.
"Next," he said, "Criminal #2."
"He was blonde. Light blonde. Handsome. Charming. But intimidating. Green eyes. Tattoos. Piercings. And this attitude like he'd start a fight with gravity if he felt like it."
The sketch artist nodded thoughtfully.
"Ah. The pretty-psychopath archetype."
Gabriella blinked. "That's… shockingly accurate."
Ten minutes later, he turned the sketches around.
She gasped.
The drawings looked EXACTLY like…
The two men she saw.
She trembled.
"Are you okay?" the artist asked.
"Oh yeah," she said weakly. "Just… hoping they never see me."
The officer thanked her, took her statement, and said they might reach out again.
She left the station feeling proud… and terrified.
Gabriella returned home, collapsed on her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
"I did something responsible," she whispered. "Sally would be so proud. Or horrified. Depending on her mood."
She had no idea that her description had already stirred up chaos in a mansion across town.
---
*Diggle Mansion*
Adrian Diggle sat in his sleek office, tapping a pen against the desk as he reviewed documents. His steel-gray eyes narrowed at the numbers in front of him.
Across from him, Harper Wheeler lounged in a chair like he owned the place—legs spread, arms behind his head, blond hair falling into his green eyes.
"You look annoyed," Harper drawled.
"I am annoyed," Adrian replied. "The supply shipment numbers are off."
"You want me to shoot someone?"
"No."
"Break a kneecap?"
"No."
"Light something on fire?"
Adrian glared. "Enough."
Harper grinned.
Just then, the office phone rang.
Adrian pressed speaker. "Yes?"
The guard's voice crackled. "Sir, the… police are here."
Harper sat up straight.
Adrian froze.
"…Let them through," Adrian said calmly, though his jaw clenched.
Minutes later, two officers burst into the office.
"Adrian Diggle and Harper Wheeler," one announced, "you are under arrest for suspected involvement in an arson attack last night."
Harper blinked. "Us?"
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like I have time to burn restaurants? I barely have time to sleep."
The officers cuffed them anyway.
Harper sighed. "Can I at least finish my coffee?"
"No."
"Rude."
---
Back at the station, officers buzzed around excitedly. Arresting the Diggle heir was like catching a unicorn.
Adrian sat calmly in the interrogation room, legs crossed, expression blank.
Harper, sitting beside him, kept whispering, "Bro, I think that officer has a crush on you."
"Shut up."
Soon, their lawyer arrived with footage showing the two of them at an underground casino miles away at the time of the attack.
Alibi: solid.
The officers reluctantly released them.
Harper stretched. "Freedom tastes nice."
Adrian didn't smile.
He was furious.
The moment they stepped out
side the station, his voice turned cold—dangerously cold.
"Harper," he said quietly.
"Yes, boss?"
"Find out who reported us."
Harper grinned slowly.
"And when I find them?"
Adrian's steel-gray eyes hardened.
"Deal with them."
Harper cracked his knuckles.
"With pleasure."
Adrian's jaw tightened.
"No one reports me. Not without consequences."