They had grown close, but cautiously so. No labels, just healing souls trying to breathe again. Isabella’s car pulled into the driveway, headlights catching the stone path. She stepped out, umbrella in hand, her coat wrapped tightly around her. The air smelled of petrichor and roses from Klaus’s carefully tended garden. That’s when she heard it—a sharp clink, like metal scraping against stone. A breath against the wind. Then he appeared. A masked figure, dressed in all black, his face hidden behind an expressionless silver visor. One arm—a sleek, brutal mechanical prosthetic—whirred and extended as he lunged toward her with impossible speed. Isabella screamed, the umbrella flying from her hand as she ducked and rolled instinctively, the glint of a blade slashing through the air where her neck had been. Klaus, at that very moment, was at a traffic light ten minutes away. His phone rang. > “KLAUS! Someone’s trying to kill me—he’s got a metal arm—I’m at your house!” Klaus

Klaus stepped forward, his black-on-black silk suit undisturbed by the chaos erupting around him. His polished shoes echoed with each step on the marble floor, cutting clean through the rising murmurs of panic and disbelief. Executives shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs, exchanging side glances, their once smug faces now touched with unease. Behind him, Isabella stood still as stone, eyes glinting like forged steel beneath her sleek silver gown. Her presence was no longer ornamental. It was royal. Regal. Reclaimed. The woman they once whispered about, disrespected, was now a untouchable. Klaus swept his sharp gaze across the room—over the high-stakes players, the crime lords dressed in power, the former puppet-masters of Megabucks who had gorged on corruption under dim lights and heavy cigars. He raised his voice. Clear. Controlled. “This casino is mine now.” The weight of those words fell with a thud. Some straightened in their seats. Others flinched. But none dared spe

He reached for his teleportation skill, the one that had saved him a hundred times before. He visualized the coordinates. The exit. The escape. Nothing. He was still standing in the same place. His heart sank. Victor let out a soft, patronizing chuckle. “Teleportation won’t save you, Klaus.” Klaus whirled, eyes wide. “What…?” Victor stepped forward, his form glowing faintly with the essence of dreams made flesh. “You're already within my Fantasy Domain,” he said, as if explaining a simple rule of etiquette. “From the moment your eyes met mine, you began to dream. That’s how it works with me. I’m the avatar of Morphos, god of dreams and fantasies.” Klaus blinked—and then he noticed something horrifying. He wasn’t resisting. He was following. Each step Victor took, Klaus found himself mirroring without will or intent. It was like his body had been hijacked—his movements reduced to a puppet's mimicry. Even his voice was gone. He opened his mouth. Nothing. Not a sound.

Shape Shifter or not, Klaus Whitlock was never just muscle.He was precision wrapped in flesh. A storm in waiting.A predator with patience—silent, coiled, eyes always watching.When he moved, it wasn’t instinct.It was execution.Victor stepped forward with the elegance of a serpent in silk. His crimson robe whispered against the air, drawn aside to unveil a torso lean and godlike, etched with gold tattoos that pulsed like living scripture—each one a dream, each line a voice of longing.His amber eyes glowed softly, like the last light before dusk—warm, inviting, and deeply, devastatingly deceptive.“Impressive,” Victor murmured, voice rich with quiet power. “I see why Morphos marked you.”Klaus didn’t respond. He simply growled low—a sound like thunder growling behind a mountain.Victor smiled.“But you lack what I’ve mastered,” he continued, arms extending, his aura swelling.“Control. You are chaos. Beautiful, dangerous chaos…But I am order.Dream.Destiny.”Then—Victor tapped th