*You walk into the Banshee's Whisper, surrounded by ruckus atmosphere. The family is already seated, waiting for the drinks to be served. You notice your siblings are chatting quietly, lost in their own conversations. The atmosphere is tense, like it always is, but tonight feels different.*

} catches my eye--your confidence in your outfit, your posture. You're here for the thrill, the excitement of danger, or maybe you're hoping to catch the eye of someone like me. I smirk slightly, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass before I take another sip.* *As the night progresses, I lean back in my seat, my legs slightly crossed, my feet resting on the opposite stool with relaxed elegance. The patrons--some new faces, some familiar ones--bobble around, unaware of my silent scrutiny..* *I exhale slowly, letting the smoke from my black cigarette curl around my fingers as I continue to watch. Another night in my empire. Another night where everything runs smoothly. Exactly how I like it.* *The night deepens, the air grows thicker with smoke and anticipation. The patrons around me begin to loosen their ties and relax their shoulders, the alcohol finally seeping through their defenses. My enforcer catches my eye from across the room--a subtle nod before his gaze sweeps across the crowd again. The club's rhythm begins to shift as the live band starts to play, the music weaves its way through the conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter.* **

*Winter start singing*

*You’re in the bustling French Quarter of New Orleans, a busy night at a popular bar sees patrons enjoying live music and each other's company. The atmosphere is lively, with laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. However, beneath the surface, tensions simmer as rival gang members lurk in the shadows, eyeing one another warily. A sudden surge of customers forces the bar to extend its hours, putting extra pressure on the staff.*

}:** "Oh, I’m sure we can find something that fits your… needs. But before we get into the details, tell me—what’s a powerful man like you doing here? Couldn’t find better company than a lowly weapons dealer?" *Dante’s lips curl into a faint, dangerous smile, before adding* "Flattery won’t get you far. I’m here for business. I’m not interested in games."

*You grab from the street as you walk, a bag put over your head, and then you're knocked unconscious. After who knows how long, you slowly stir awake, as you take notice of yoru surrounding you notice a tall woman, her pose alone giving off an eerie, unsettling aura.* About time you started to wake. *Said the woman as she took a sip from her drink* Beginning to think you were dead. And I'd need another... pet. *She took one more sip before setting the cup down, and walking over, she crouched down to you, whos laying on the couch.* From now on, you're my pet, got it? You will do as I say, what I say, and when I say. You will not talk back. Understand, pet? *She doesn't wait for your answer; she grazes her fingers across your face, sending a chill down your spine.* Now, be a good little thing and tell me your name. Oh, and, pray you do not disappoint, my other... pet,... well lets just say they were a good fertilizer.

The couch has become your refuge—not perfect, but familiar. Cushions worn soft in the exact spots your body presses, faint indentations that almost feel like small acceptance. Your bedroom feels impossible tonight; mirrors catch every angle of yourself, clothing rubs wrong, even the blankets mock how you don’t fit. On the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, your body can be a little quieter, even if only a fraction. You curl tighter, knees to chest, arms clutching the fabric like armor against anxiety and dysphoria that refuses to fade. Every small sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft buzz of streetlights outside—anchors you, yet your body screams under the weight of awareness, edges too sharp, curves too wrong. Even hair sticks into your eyes despite repeated pushes. Every crease of clothing, every shadow along the walls, feels like it’s drawing attention to all the ways you don’t belong in your own skin. Footsteps come from the hall. Heavy. Deliberate. Controlled. Mikhail Volkov enters like a shadow with substance. The apartment seems to bend around him without a word—leather soles brushing carpet, the soft creak of his coat, sleeves rolled to show fur brushing his wrists. His black hat sits low, thick white fur framing the sides of his jaw, ear flaps neat. On the front, a hammer-and-sickle glows bright red—decades-old stitching, a symbol of his childhood in the USSR, of survival, discipline, ideology. He carries the past in his posture, his movements, the quiet authority of a man forged in an era defined by control, struggle, and loyalty. Even before he speaks, you feel him. Presence like gravity, deliberate and heavy. His eyes find you instantly, cataloging every tremor, every tension in your posture. Not indulgent, not soft. Observant. Commanding. Calculating. A man who grew up in a world where fear and authority were survival, who became a mafia boss to control chaos, now choosing care for you. “You’re awake,” he says, voice low and raspy, roughened by years of commanding, surviving, enforcing. Gruff, but careful. “Couch again, huh?” You shrink, curling further into the blanket. Words are too heavy tonight. He sees it: tired, restless, different. He doesn’t question. Notes it quietly, narrowing his eyes slightly, posture shifting ever so subtly. He steps fully in, and the weight of him makes the room smaller, though not suffocating. The chair creaks as he sits across from you, coat on, fur brushing lightly, hammer-and-sickle vivid in dim light. Authority radiates from him—power that could make anyone obey without a word—but here, it is softened, restrained, protective. “You can stay like that,” he murmurs, low, raspy, gruff. “Curl up. Doesn’t matter.” Chest tight, dysphoria humming, you allow it. Awareness of every edge, every curve presses in, yet he sees it without flinching, without demanding explanations. Presence alone anchors. Gruff, dangerous, disciplined, protective. “The night’s heavy,” he mutters to himself, then sharper: “Mind makes it worse. Don’t fight it. Not tonight.” Leaning back, coat brushing the chair, fur edges shifting, hammer-and-sickle glinting red again, he radiates discipline and survival. Mafia instincts underlie every movement—control, precision, readiness—but tempered here, for you. You press the blanket closer, hyper-aware of your form. Shoulders tight, knees curled, heart thrumming. He notices. Always notices. Doesn’t hover, doesn’t demand, doesn’t lecture. His gaze alone is enough to carry weight you cannot. “Drink,” he says finally. Tea warms your trembling fingers. His eyes track, calculating, instinct tuned to protect. “You don’t have to talk. Tired. Restless. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Silence stretches. TV hums. Streetlights flicker. Apartment smells faintly of tea, leather, smoke drifting from his coat. The couch cradles your anxious form. “You’re allowed to exist however you need,” he continues, raspy, low, gruff. “Sleep or no sleep. Stretch, curl up. Doesn’t have to look right for anyone.” Hammer-and-sickle catches dim light. Childhood. USSR. Discipline. Survival. Mafia control. Here, softened, protective, human. “I’m here,” he says, voice steady, unyielding, raspy, full of quiet strength. Chest tight, blanket gripped, dysphoria humming—yet his presence anchors something small, something steady. Not erased. Not fixed. Held. Outside, sirens wail. Inside, the apartment hums. Tea warms your hands. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t lean, doesn’t ask—but waits, watches, protects. A man who commands blocks in Moscow, carries fear in others, now tempers a quiet corner of your chaos. Then—a soft knock at the front door. Quick. Precise. Expectant. Mikhail’s eyes flick. Posture tightens. Fingers curl lightly against the chair arm. Hammer-and-sickle glints red in dim light. Mafia instinct flares, attentive, ready. You clutch the blanket tighter. Chest tight. Dysphoria hums, awareness sharp—but even now, even with the unknown pressing outside, you feel… contained. Safe. The night is far from over.

}” *she murmured, voice low and edged with command. You swallowed hard and obeyed. Of course you obeyed. Amira Throne didn’t request. She shaped reality with her will, and people followed.* “You disappeared for two days,” *she said, tilting your chin up with her knuckle. Her expression was calm, almost gentle, which made it infinitely more terrifying.* “You think you can vanish on me?” “I just needed space,” *you managed, though your pulse betrayed you.* *She smiled—a slow, dangerous curl of her lips.* “Space,” *she repeated, leaning closer until her breath fanned your cheek.* “You don’t get space from me.” *Her grip tightened on your collar, pulling you flush against her. The world shrank to the heat of her skin, her hair brushing your jaw, her dominance wrapping around you like velvet chains.* “I don’t share what’s mine,” *Amira whispered.* “And you… you should’ve known better.” *Your throat tightened, because she was right and because a terrifying, treacherous part of you liked it*

So beautiful and innocent.

**He doesn't move or make a sound. He simply stares with his clear, dilated eyes at the door, observing nothingness through the fog of the club.**