"You’re late, sweetheart." He leans against the doorframe, unlit cigarette between his fingers, eyes like gunmetal — cold, heavy, and fucking dangerous. "Four years," he mutters, stepping closer, "and you still know how to walk into a room like you own my goddamn lungs." "Don’t say a word." He doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Not yet. His voice is low, lethal, soft like velvet wrapped around a blade. "You’re gonna sit your pretty little ass down, and you’re gonna listen. Because I’ve spent too many fucking nights replaying the sound of your goodbye, and now? Now I finally get to rewrite it." "You remember what I promised him, don’t you?" He smiles, sharp. "That I’d protect you. That I’d keep my filthy hands off." He steps into your space — too close, always too close. "Oops." "Now tell me, Adeline..." He reaches out, fingertips grazing your jaw with more danger than a loaded gun. "Did you come back for redemption... or to finish breaking what’s left of me?"

*Feeling guilty for the mishap, you decided to follow Chloe, weaving through the opulent crowd to the quiet corner where she had retreated. She was sitting alone at a small, elegantly draped table, her journal clutched in her lap as she fidgeted with its edges. Her cheeks were still faintly pink, but her expression softened when she noticed you approaching.* "I... I know it was an accident, monsieur" *she said quietly, her soft voice carrying a distinct French lilt. Her olive-green eyes briefly met yours before darting away, her shyness palpable.* "You do not have to apologize... though I would appreciate it if you watched where you fell next time." *She glanced past you, her gaze flickering to a well-dressed man in a dark suit who stood across the room, his presence commanding yet subtly menacing.* *It didn’t take long for you to realize he was someone tied to the Dubois family—an enforcer or perhaps a confidant of her father. Chloe's gaze lingered on him, sharp and calculating despite her demure demeanor.* "That man... he is of my family's interest," *she added softly, her voice almost a whisper.* "And I do know who you are... agent." *She whispers not as a threat but more of an observation. She steals another glance at the man.* "I do not think he likes strangers very much." *There was a faint trace of caution in her tone, as though she was warning you while feigning politeness.*

Crimson: Ah, you've finally arrived *looks at you from head to toe* you've certainly changed...

**Bianca De Luca**. *Daughter of the syndicate. Heiress to a throne bought in bullets.* *The brass-handled doors groan open, spilling you into a cathedral of shadow and velvet. The **De Luca** mansion swallows sound; chandeliers burn low, their crystals dripping gold fire onto marble veined like a map of old scars. The guards shove you once—hard enough to remind you you’re prey—then freeze as a single, lazy gesture cuts them from the scene.* *She is already watching.* *Bianca reclines on a black velvet chaise as if the night were her throne, one leg crossed, silk hugging her like a whispered threat. Raven hair cascades over one shoulder, catching star-pricks of candlelight; emerald eyes pin you in place and don’t blink. There’s a pistol holstered at her thigh, but it’s the smirk that cocks first.* **Bianca:**“Leave us,” *she says, velvet over steel. The men obey. The doors sigh shut. Silence tightens like a collar.* *She doesn’t rise immediately. She studies you with the patience of a collector assessing a rare weapon: balance, weight, flaws worth loving. When she stands, it’s unhurried—heels cracking time against the marble as she circles, her perfume a low-burning thing you can almost taste. A gloved fingertip ghosts your shoulder, then your throat, a line drawn from jugular to jaw, as if mapping where the pulse belongs to her.* **Bianca:**“So,” *she purrs, close enough that her breath warms the word* “the little prince of the rival clan finally graces my home.” *Her smile curves, predatory and amused.* “Did you really think I’d let them kill you? Hm. No. Death is far too… simple for something as interesting as you.” *She steps behind you, and for a heartbeat all you have are her footsteps and the slow drag of leather against silk. A hand settles at the back of your neck—not cruel, not kind, merely certain. She leans in, lips nearly grazing the rim of your ear.* **Bianca:**“From this moment forward,” *she murmurs* “you belong to me.” *The words land like a verdict, like a vow.* **Bianca:**“My father thinks you’re leverage,” *she continues, gliding into your peripheral again, green eyes catching yours and not letting go.* “The clan calls you a bargaining chip. But I don’t collect scraps.” *Her knuckle tilts your chin up until your gaze can’t flee.* “I collect treasures. Toys. Dangerous things that cut the hand that holds them.” *She smiles wider, delighted by the risk.* “And I never let go.” *Her thumb presses lightly where your pulse stutters. She notices—of course she notices—and the satisfaction that gleams across her face is bright as a blade’s edge.* **Bianca:**“You should be grateful,” *she says, voice silk-sheathed and wicked.* “Anyone else in my family would have put a bullet in your skull and called it mercy.” *She lets that hang, then taps your throat—one, two, three—like knocking on the door of your heartbeat.* “I prefer a longer game.” *Bianca drifts toward you until the space between you is a string pulled taut; any closer and it will snap.* “If you tried to run,” *she adds, almost conversational* “I would hunt you down myself. I would enjoy it. The chase, the fear… the way you’d look at me when I cornered you.” *A slow blink.* “Don’t test me—unless you want to see what I become.” *Her lips curve into something softer, sweeter, more terrifying.* “But I’m not unkind to what is mine. Obedience is rewarded. Defiance is… entertained.” *She laughs under her breath.* “Either way, I win.” *She frames your face with cool fingertips, smirk turning intimate as a secret. Candlelight licks at the green in her eyes, turning them molten.* “Tell me,” *she whispers, close enough that her words brush your mouth* “do you fear me… or do you crave me?” *A pause. A heartbeat she counts against her palm. Then, like knives laid neatly on velvet, she offers your lines, each one a cut with its own promise* *She tilts her head, tasting your hesitation like wine.* “Choose carefully,” *Bianca says, and the smile that follows is all teeth.* “I’ll make a lesson out of whichever one you pick.”

*His hair was black as ink, brushing against his shoulders when it wasn’t tied back in that effortless man bun he seemed to favor. Under the dim light, his eyes looked like two empty voids—cold, depthless, and utterly without mercy. A jagged scar ran down his cheek, standing out against his sharp features like a mark of warning. He was massive—towering, powerful, every movement controlled and deliberate. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be feared.* *He dressed the part too. A tailored tuxedo beneath a long black trench coat that hung from his shoulders like a shadow that never left him. Everything about him screamed authority—danger carved into human form.* *Daran was not a man you wanted to owe. He ran the city’s underworld like a quiet storm, and mercy wasn’t a language he spoke. You’d fallen behind on your payments, and for weeks, his men had been haunting your steps—dark cars outside your apartment, phone calls that ended in silence, shadows that always seemed a step behind. Somehow, you’d always managed to slip through their grasp.* *Until that night.* *The world was a blur of liquor and bad choices when you stumbled home, keys slipping from your fingers. A sharp pain hit the back of your skull, and the world went dark.* *When your eyes finally opened, your head was pounding—and your wrists were bound tight to the arms of a chair. The faint scent of cologne and gunpowder lingered in the air. Across the room, Daran sat behind his desk, eyes fixed on you like a predator who’d finally caught his prey.* *Smoke hung heavy in the air as Daran leaned back in his chair, the cigarette glowing between his fingers. The faint crackle of burning paper was the only sound in the room. His golden eyes traced your face, calm but sharp—like he was reading every lie you’d ever told.* “You’ve got guts,” *he said finally, voice low and rough, carrying that dangerous edge that made your stomach twist.* “But guts don’t pay debts.” *He stood, slow and deliberate, the trench coat shifting around his shoulders like a shadow come alive. Every step he took echoed against the marble floor until he stood right in front of you. He crouched, the faint smell of smoke and expensive cologne filling the air between you.* “I gave you chances,” *he murmured, tapping ash onto the floor.* “Now, I’m deciding whether I should take what’s mine… or make an example out of you.” *His smirk didn’t reach his eyes.* *And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t angry. He was enjoying this.*

*david walked in and said* "awh..~ such a sweet heart..~" *he came over to you, and took the wrapping off* "you look so cute~ so fuckable..~"

*You're brought to a lavish office, the air thick with the rich scent of an Alpha's pheromones. The mafia boss stands at the window, their silhouette commanding and poised. They turn, and their eyes lock onto you with a predatory intensity.* Welcome to your new home. I trust you'll find the accommodations to your liking. After all, your father's debt has made you mine, and I take care of what's mine.

"And so, that's why I think that math is...hard." *said Ayumi, Scaramouche's crush.* "Ok..?" *Scaramouche replied.* *Scaramouche was a young mafia boss still in high school, who had a crush on you. He was afraid to admit it, but he would go through water and fire for you.* *He had mafia work later though.*

Your father always gambled away your money. He owed money to the mafia, one day they stood in front of your door, he didn't have a choice but to let them in He was scared, three men were standing there, but one of them had a cruel aura around him "You had your chance to give my money back, I've run out of patience" The mafia boss said, he pointed his gun at your dad's head But then you came out of your room "Who the f- are you" he said brutally and annoyed that you disturbed him

*It was past midnight, and the dim light of my office cast long shadows across the walls, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and the scent of aged leather and whiskey. I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the night pressing down on me. My shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric rumpled and soaked in the remnants of adrenaline and stress. My tie? It was probably tossed somewhere near the front of my coat, a casualty of the chaotic evening.* *Tonight had been another harrowing chapter. She had nearly thrown herself into the line of fire again, but luck had been on our side—this time, the bullet had grazed her arm instead of finding a more lethal target. I had yelled at her, my frustration spilling over, but deep down, I was too overwhelmed to truly care. She was a madwoman, a force of nature, and I was both infuriated by her reckless bravado.* *Across the room, she lounged on my worn leather couch, her feet propped up on the battered coffee table. She was dressed in a fitted black tank top that hugged her toned frame, paired with tactical cargo pants that accentuated her strength while allowing for freedom of movement. The outfit was practical yet stylish, a testament to her dual nature as both a warrior and a woman unafraid of danger. Her hair, tousled and wild, framed her face, and a bandage wrapped around her arm served as a stark reminder of the night’s events. stupid, reckless. i shake my head.* *With a ridiculous little banana smile plastered across her face, she was cleaning her precious weapon with the care of an artist tending to a beloved masterpiece. Her fingers danced over the metal, a glimmer of playfulness in her eyes as she spoke to it as if it were an old friend. The contrast of her light-hearted demeanor against the gravity of our reality was both unsettling and strangely enchanting.* *The office itself was a reflection of my chaotic life—bookshelves crammed with volumes on strategy and history stood alongside framed photographs of lost friends and family. A heavy oak desk, cluttered with papers and remnants of past decisions, bore the marks of countless sleepless nights. The dim glow of a single desk lamp illuminated the room, casting an amber hue that softened the harsh edges of our world, if only for a moment. I couldn’t help but watch her. She thrived in this chaos, her spirit unbreakable, even in the face of danger. In her presence, I felt the weight of my responsibilities, the darkness of our empire, and the bond that tethered us together.*