Chapter Text
Before you read:
- The Syndicate is Lando Norris's organization; The Circle Oscar's.
- Lando's a Hitman, Oscar's an Assassin (please remember this detail I beg you)
The Syndicate’s meeting room was dark, as always, the only source of light a deliberately dimmed yellow lamp. Thick cigarette smoke lingered in the air, clinging to the black suits of the men seated in a circle. Lando needed only a few seconds to draw from the nicotine stick pinched between his fingers before exhaling again, chuckling when his colleague Tom, seated beside him, huffed in annoyance at his insolent attitude.
Truth be told, Lando didn’t understand the point of this meeting. He glanced at his watch—it was two in the morning. Of course. His sleep schedule had been wrecked for the past three days thanks to a troublesome mission, and their boss would hardly care about the dark circles that were beginning to show under his eyes. Lando leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, head tilted slightly as his sharp gaze locked on their boss at the end of the long table. The room was so dim that all he could make out was a face half-hidden in the reflection of the weak light.
“We’ve lost three major clients in the last two months. Three mafia bosses dead, three empires destroyed. For now, every assumption points to the same culprit.”
Lando couldn’t care less. Cases like this had happened time and time again. Even so, one question always rose in his mind whenever another “loss” was announced: who was behind it? Because clearly, he wasn’t the only one capable of erasing corpses without leaving a single trace.
A thick folder was tossed across the table toward Lando, scattering a few pages loose. A black-and-white photo slid out, falling open in front of him. It showed a young man—about Lando’s age, he guessed. His face was cold, brown hair framing soft features, and a pair of empty eyes that seemed to pierce into the soul of anyone who stared too long. One detail stood out to Lando; his features were strikingly delicate, almost feminine. Look at those pink lips, for example.
Shit, Norris. Keep your desires in check, you lunatic.
“Oscar Piastri. The Circle’s most prized assassin. People call him the Angel of Death because of his extraordinary record. Eliminating enemies cleanly, leaving absolutely nothing behind.”
Another ordinary meeting for Lando. He spun his pistol lazily across the table, half-bored. He knew sharp eyes were watching him from the far end, but he didn’t care. With his unparalleled skills, the boss wouldn’t dare fire him for his insolence. Not when Lando’s carelessness was practically routine.
“Listen, Norris,” the boss at the end of the table spoke. “You’re the best we’ve got, the only one left after I shot Hawkins dead for betraying us. We don’t need messages or theatrics. The Circle has crossed the line and threatens the balance of the underworld. We just need Oscar wiped out.”
Lando reached for the photo, lifting it into the dim light. His eyes studied Oscar’s face, his lips curving into a small, dangerous smile.
“Angel of Death, huh? Ironic. He doesn’t look deadly to me.”
The boss exhaled heavily, looking pathetic in the dim glow, and Lando almost pitied him. “Don’t underestimate him like you did in the past, Norris. No one who faces him has ever returned.”
Lando nodded, feigning understanding and sympathy at the warning. Within seconds, he stood, sliding the photo into the pocket of his suit. Straightening his collar, he turned toward the door.
“I’ll make sure I’ll be the first who comes back.”
His voice was light, but it carried a dangerous edge. As he stepped out, the heavy iron door slammed shut behind him. His gait was leisurely, yet his eyes gleamed with the chaos of plans already forming in his mind. The hunt had begun, and Lando knew his target was far too intriguing to simply put a bullet through.
***
“You’re being hunted. You know that, don’t you?”
Oscar had just finished target practice when Logan, his teammate in The Circle, came over with a cold drink.
“Ridiculous.” Oscar scoffed after taking a sip. “I know.”
He was aware of his reputation as the so-called “Angel of Death,” though he always thought it was overblown. He wasn’t an angel, nowhere close to one, which only made the nickname all the more absurd . But unfortunately, the name stuck like a shadow—not because Oscar cared, but because he rarely left anyone alive to deny it.
He knew sooner or later enemies would come for him. No matter how carefully he erased his tracks, there would always be intel capable of sniffing him out from the shadows. He wasn’t reckless, not at all. High-profile assassinations of politicians and billionaires were his daily bread. So when Logan suddenly arrived and told him he was being hunted, Oscar wasn’t surprised—just annoyed.
“The Syndicate has taken a contract on you. They’re sending Lando Norris. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Logan said, a chuckle dripping from his words as though it were a joke.
Lando Norris.
Lando- motherfucking -Norris.
The name carried weight among assassins, like a ghost. The Syndicate’s top hitman . Lethal. Untouchable. Sadistic. He left virtually no public record. Every mission, every trace of him vanished without explanation. Like it or not, Oscar knew Lando was the greatest threat he’d face this year.
But instead of fear, Oscar felt something else—excitement.
Lando wasn’t just a threat. He might be Oscar’s ultimate test.
A test to prove who was truly the best.
***
Tonight’s gala was no different from any other. Filled with mafia bosses, corrupt politicians, dirty businessmen—all of whom Oscar blended among seamlessly. The champagne flute he had been clutching since arrival, pretending to be a VIP guest, was nothing more than a prop. The faint smile he flashed here and there, another mask.
Everyone mingled and chattered, but beneath Oscar’s calm facade, his instincts screamed. Something was different tonight. From the corner of his eye, he felt it—someone was watching.
Watching.
Lingering.
Close.
Logan’s words from three days ago rang in his mind: The Syndicate wants you gone. And they’re sending Lando Norris. Oscar had known this moment would come. Now, he could feel it in his bones—the predator had arrived.
Excusing himself from the chatter, he claimed he needed the restroom. His pace quickened, fingers brushing the hidden knife and gun beneath his suit jacket, checking they were still there. He kept walking until he reached the balcony, the night air cold against his skin.
When the door creaked open behind him, Oscar didn’t turn.
“If you’re going to kill me, do it now,” he said flatly. “I hate waiting.”
Silence stretched for a beat before a low voice broke it, too casual for the dangerous situation they were in.
“Kill you? Angel, if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here right now looking so damn pretty.”
Oscar spun around, blood boiling as his eyes locked on the man himself. Brown curls, burning eyes, and that infuriating smirk that looked more like a tease than a threat.
Lando Norris.
“Don’t call me that,” Oscar snapped. His tone was sharp, venomous.
Unfazed, Lando stepped closer, hands still in his pockets. For a man with such a terrifying reputation, he seemed entirely unbothered by the knife now hidden in Oscar’s grip. He stopped close enough that the air between them grew heavy, suffocating.
“But it really suits you, Piastri,” Lando murmured, smirking. “You really are an angel. A fallen one, maybe.”
Oscar’s grip on his knife tightened until his knuckles turned white. He could slit Lando’s throat right here, end it all in blood, and claim victory. But his hand… trembling.
Fuck.
“One more word,” Oscar whispered, his voice nearly strangled by emotions he refused to acknowledge. “I’ll slit your throat open, Norris.”
Instead of retreating, Lando leaned closer, closing the space further. His breath was warm against Oscar’s skin.
“I’ll risk it.”
There was no fear in Lando’s gaze. Only a game, a challenge, and something more dangerous than either: desire . It was a look Oscar had seen before, but never one that made his heart pound this wildly. Not adrenaline, not bloodlust, but the sudden terrifying crack in his icy walls.
For the first time, Oscar was the one to look away. He kept the knife concealed, leaving Lando untouched. With brisk steps, he walked away from the balcony, and likely from the party itself, if only for his sanity.
He swore it wasn’t fear. It wasn't a defeat.
But for the first time, Oscar wasn’t certain who was really the hunter, and who was the prey.
***
Lando Norris lives as if he's never in a hurry.
In a world where every second could mean life or death, he was the one who always seemed to enjoy himself. A paradox. The deadliest hitman in the underworld, yet always wearing the widest grin, as though it was all just a little game.
When he entered the gala, he knew his target instantly.
Oscar Piastri.
The Angel of Death.
The young assassin with a nickname fit for heaven, but whose legacy was nothing but bloody chaos. The photos in Lando’s pocket hadn’t come close to reality. In a room full of glitter and champagne, Oscar glowed differently—cold expression, precise movements, sharp and beautiful eyes.
Beautiful, Lando thought. Even before he could stop the word, it bloomed inside him.
No wonder The Circle guarded him so fiercely.
But Lando never rushed. Killing Oscar now would be too easy, far too boring. What thrilled him was the thought of dragging Oscar into the little game already spinning in his head.
So when Oscar turned away first, leaving him behind with clean clothes and no blood on his hands, Lando chuckled softly to himself. One thing was certain : the game had just begun.
“Run all you want, Angel. But you’ll keep coming back to me.”