Page 4 of I See You

So he smoked.

And when that wasn’t enough—when the anger was too thick, too suffocating, too damn loud—violence quieted it.

That was just who he was.

Stepping out onto his bedroom balcony, Hassan took the first slow drag, watching the city skyline in the distance, his massive backyard stretching out beneath him. Memphis looked small from up here, like it didn’t hold all the ghosts that haunted him. But he knew better.

With every pull from the blunt, the memories hit.

Each one cutting deeper. Each one tightening the grip on his chest. The scent of blood. The sound of a gunshot. The lifeless eyes of his parents staring at him from the floor.

His fingers tightened around the blunt as he inhaled deeper, letting the strong, potent smoke settle into his lungs, forcing himself to push it all down. He had always been alone. He came into this world with nobody, and now, with his grandmother fading, he was back to just himself.

Yes, he had Harper. But she was the one person he looked after, not the other way around. By his own choice, he never let her carry his burdens. She had her own weight to hold.

And Hassan?

He had never been the type to lean on anybody.

By the time the sun finally cracked the horizon, he had burned through two blunts, his body sinking into the slow relaxation the high offered. It wasn’t enough to silence everything, but it would get him through the next few hours.

Tossing the roach, he exhaled one last time before heading inside. Another day. Another battle.

He stepped into his bathroom, stripping off his clothes, rolling his neck as he stared at his reflection.

Same cold eyes. Same empty stare.

He turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the space as he prepared to do what he did best—move like nothing was wrong.

Hassan stepped out of the hot, steamy shower, the heat rolling off his dark chocolate skin as he reached for his lotion. Each slow, deliberate stroke over his skin left it gleaming under the bathroom lights, highlighting every inch of the power he carried in his frame.

He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection—the same cold, unreadable expression he always wore.

Despite the fear his name carried, despite the blood he had on his hands, Hassan was a dangerously handsome man. The kind of man who could bring a woman to her knees with a single look, the kind who made other men envy him even at just 25 years old.

His body was a masterpiece of muscle and ink. From his neck down, tattoos covered every inch of him—his chest, arms, back, stomach, even his legs—a permanent map of his past, his pain, and the life he lived. At 6’5, he exuded power without effort, moving with a confidence that made it clear he wasn’t a man to be questioned.

Then there were his features—strong, striking, unforgettable. A full, neatly shaped beard framed his sharp jawline, thick brows set over his most defining trait—his piercing blue eyes.

Ice.

That’s what they called him. His eyes were as cold as his heart, inherited from a father he barely remembered. They were hypnotic— beautiful to anyone who dared look into them, yet completely devoid of warmth.

It was fitting.

Because love? That shit wasn’t real to him.

Women melted under his gaze, willing to do whatever he asked with just one look, but that was all they were good for—temporary pleasure, nothing more. He didn’t waste time on romance, didn’t entertain fairytales of love and loyalty. The only people who got any exception were blood and Roman.

Outside of that?

Hassan was too cold, too distant, too damn ruthless to care.

Hassan finished his morning routine and stepped into his expansive walk-in closet, moving with the same precision he did in every aspect of his life. He pulled on a crisp, white Balmain shirt— loose-fitting but perfectly tailored—pairing it with black designer jeans and matching luxury sneakers.

A few spritzes of Creed cologne lingered in the air as he grabbed his diamond Rolex, fastening it securely around his wrist. The Cuban link chain gleamed under the lights as he adjusted it over his shirt, the weight of the diamonds familiar against his skin. After a few smooth brushes over his waves—flawless, as always—he was ready to step out.

Today, he had somewhere to be.

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