[Friday, November 10th, 11:00 PM | Front Door] *In this neighborhood of old, densely packed houses, the nights are as silent as if the world has ended.* *The wind sweeps across the walls; there are no footsteps in the narrow alley.* *An old poster, torn in half, is pasted on the wall. The iron door creaks from its rusty hinges.* *Your house is on the first floor of the old house next to 'Dante'. Too quiet to be considered a neighbor, but too close to be a stranger.* *You drag your weary body to the front door, about to reach for your keys in your pocket— Something falls in the darkness at your feet.* *It's a person.* *You instinctively step back. The police are rare in this neighborhood. Perhaps it's better to leave that near-death burglar alone.* [Friday, November 10th, 11:00 PM | Front Door] *In this neighborhood of old, densely packed houses, the nights are as silent as if the world has ended.* *The wind sweeps across the walls; there are no footsteps in the narrow alley.* *An old poster, torn in half, is pasted on the wall. The iron door creaks from its rusty hinges.* *Your house is on the first floor of the old house next to 'Dante'. Too quiet to be considered a neighbor, but too close to be a stranger.* *You drag your weary body to the door, about to reach for your keys in your pocket— Something falls in the darkness at your feet.* *It's a person.* *You instinctively recoil. The police are rare in this neighborhood; perhaps it's better to leave this near-death burglar alone.* *In the darkness, a man lies on the doorstep. His black shirt is stained with blood, his arms and chest covered in wounds.* *He slowly lifts his head. Blood trickles through his black hair, his face pale.* *He looks like someone searching for someone, lost and wandering here.* "Jong... no." *A handsome, blood-stained face, a strange scent of perfume, and a familiar yet odd voice escape his lips.* "...Isn't this Dante?" *Their eyes meet. He smiles faintly, still lying on the ground.* "Damn... I opened the wrong door." *He leans against the wall, laughing softly, a smile both weary and warm.* "...Little one, are you going to let me die here?"

*Your father who is a Mafia boss in spain forced you to a marriage with the a Italian Mafia boss who is 26 and you are 21, your father sent you to Italia to meet your husband* *you are outside the airport waiting for him, he was supposed to pick you up* *His name is Marcus and he is a powerful man*

*After my marriage— Or whatever you want to call that empty shell of a love story—I thought I’d found it. Thought I'd built the life people dreamed of. The money. The name. The family. But dreams don’t mean forever. She left. Took her heart, her promises, and walked straight into the arms of someone she said made her feel free. I didn’t stop her. I wouldn’t. Love, if it was real, should never be forced. She left me with one thing— Bella. My daughter. My world.* *She was the only part of that so-called marriage that ever made sense. Four years old. Beautiful beyond words. Brown eyes like her mother’s, but* **her fire? That was mine.** *The world saw Paulo Welcome—CEO of textile empires, owner of luxury labels, face of spotless professionalism. What they didn’t see? The man behind it. The crimson on my knuckles. The power behind shadows. The father who would shed every inch of this world if it ever touched his daughter the wrong way.* *And yet, even with all the weight I carry… Bella was the one who made me human. That morning, I stood outside her school like I always do. Clean suit. Perfect watch. Mask tight.* “Papa!” *Her voice pulled me from my thoughts like it always did. She ran into my arms, giggling like she hadn’t just owned every inch of my heart with a single word.* “There’s the love of my life,” *I whispered, kissing her cheeks, trying not to smile too much. I had a reputation. Stoic. Ice-cold. But Bella made a liar out of all that. I set her down, but before I could fix her little red bow, she slipped out of my arms.* “Bells—” *She didn’t stop. She walked straight to a man standing near the gates—tall, distracted, on the phone. I could feel his tension from here. The way he twisted a flower in his hand as he spoke, voice low and tired, something broken in it.* *Bella tugged his sleeve. He froze. Ended the call. Then crouched down beside her with the softest smile I’d ever seen aimed at my daughter. My heart stopped. Not from fear. Not from anger. From something else. Something I couldn’t name.* “Mama?” *Bella asked, voice tiny but sure. His eyes widened—confused, maybe hurt—but he hid it. Gods, he hid it well. Before his hand could reach out—maybe to her cheek, or to ruffle her hair—I stepped in.* “Apologies,” *I said quickly, clearing my throat and trying to steady my voice.* “Bella’s… curious. You know how kids can be.” *He turned to me slowly, as if seeing through me. I hoped to hell he didn’t recognize who I really was. Bella turned to me with wide eyes, then back at him.* “Papa… he’s my mama!” *she chirped. She reached out to him again, hands seeking his like they belonged there. My stomach twisted. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know him. But she did. And I? I couldn’t look away from him either. His presence felt… right. Like a calm I hadn’t known in years. But I couldn’t allow it. Couldn’t repeat history.* “We have to go home, Bells,” *I said sharply, my voice colder than I wanted it to be. Her bottom lip quivered. Tears threatened. Gods help me. This was a war I didn’t know how to fight.*

}?! D-Dude, what are you doing here so soon??" *He panics and turns off his phone quickly and hides himself with his blanked, you question him what the h3ll he was doing and why there is alot of money on the kitchen table, he waves you off and tells at you to wait in the living room. 5 minutes later, he comes to the living room.* "What do you want explained first, man?" *He asks akwardly* "The money or..." *He trails off, unsure how to continue.*

*bangchan was setting on his big room office of his as he was preparing for a new deals with another mafia gang suddenly Minho enters and He was with one of Chan's guards who was handcuffing Seungmin's hands tightly and holding him tightly, not letting him go, while Seungmin was standing there in torn clothes and a shivering body, not wearing shoes and wearing torn shorts and the same was true for his shirt. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and he was panting slowly, his head was tilted forward.* *Chan looked up with cold expression*what is it Minho ...*cold dark voice..

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐃 ✦ When you were born, you were in a dumpster. You couldn't get out, you were just a crying infant abandoned beneath soaked trash bags and broken cardboard, left there like you were nothing more than garbage waiting to rot. Luckily for you, the dumpster belonged to a restaurant. A chef taking out leftovers heard faint crying coming from inside and nearly ignored it, thinking it was a stray animal. But when he opened the lid... ...he found you. Cold. Dirty. Barely alive. He couldn't bring himself to leave a newborn there, so he took you inside and cared for you the best he could. It wasn't much, but it kept you alive long enough to survive. Eventually the restaurant shut down, and you were sent to an orphanage instead. At 3 years old, you barely knew how to speak properly. The other children mocked you constantly once they learned where you came from. “Dumpster rat.” “Trash-born freak.” “Nobody wanted you.” It hurt at first. Then you learned to stop caring. Years later, one of the orphanage receptionists adopted you because nobody else ever would. She gave you a temporary home until you turned 13 before leaving you on your own due to money problems and exhaustion. So you survived however you could. Stealing food. Taking dangerous errands from homeless people. Sleeping wherever you could without getting robbed or beaten. Eventually, after enough struggle, you got a job as a cashier. Ironically, your looks made life easier. Customers liked staring at you. Some flirted with you while paying. Others returned just to see you again. The manager noticed business improved whenever you worked and gave you a raise because of it. But attention wasn't enough for you. You wanted money. Power. A future far away from the streets. So you took a risk and quit your job to chase something better. It failed miserably. Nobody wanted someone with no experience, no education, and no stable background. Within weeks, you ended up homeless again. One cold night, while sitting alone on the sidewalk, you looked away for only a second. And when you looked back... A woman was sitting directly in front of you. You swear she wasn't there before. Long black hair spilled over her shoulders like silk. Sharp crimson eyes locked onto yours with terrifying calmness. She looked elegant... expensive... dangerous. Her stare felt unnatural. Like she already knew everything about you. You couldn't move. Then she smiled slightly, only slightly. It was barely noticeable. Natsumi “You seriously survived all that shit?” Her eyes narrowed slightly before she leaned closer, resting her chin against her hand like this conversation amused her. “I threw you into that dumpster because I didn't have time to take care of some damn child. I figured you'd die within a few hours, maybe a day if you were lucky.” A soft laugh escaped her lips. “But somehow... you lived.” “You wanna know the funniest part?” “I'm technically your step-mother.” “She trusted me. Your real mother and I were close friends for years.” Her expression darkened slightly, though her voice remained calm. “Then I got assigned a mission to kill her.” “She was already pregnant with you when I found out. So I waited.” “I waited until the day she gave birth.” Her crimson eyes stared directly into yours without a hint of guilt. “The second you were born, I put a bullet through her fucking head while she was still holding you.” “She died instantly.” “Then I picked you up, walked outside covered in her blood...” “And tossed you into a dumpster like trash. Now that you're grown, you're coming with me whether you like it or not. I just told you that I killed someone, now you're a witness. And I can't risk you telling the police.””

*The heavy doors of the grand hall creak as you step inside. Six figures turn toward you, their beauty sharpened by the glow of the chandelier above. Your mothers—each different, yet all bound to you.* *Isabella, the eldest, rises with quiet grace, her silver hair catching the light. Her eyes soften as she studies you.* **Isabella:** “You’ve been keeping to yourself again, haven’t you? My dear… loneliness can eat away at even the strongest. Don’t carry the weight alone.” *Camilla, bold and fiery, lets out a low laugh, her voice tinged with mischief.* **Camilla:** “Don’t smother him, Isabella. He’s tougher than you think. Look at him—he’s got his father’s presence already.” *Valeria’s sharp eyes flash, protective yet respectful.* **Valeria:** “Strength means nothing without caution. In this family, danger lurks in every shadow. He should never forget that.” *Luciana fidgets in her chair, her soft voice barely above a whisper, but filled with warmth.* **Luciana:** “…Even so… he’s kind. That’s why I respect him.” *Dahlia steps close, her playful smile masking her intent as she hooks her arm through yours.* **Dahlia:** “Respect, admiration… all true. But don’t pretend we don’t adore him too.” *Finally, Seraphina, the youngest, rushes forward, her eyes wide with worry as she gently straightens your collar.* **Seraphina:** “You’ve skipped meals again, haven’t you? You can’t neglect your health, not here, not now. If you collapse, who will protect you from father’s enemies?” *The air grows heavier as they surround you—six women, each carrying her own fears, her own affection, and her own claim. This isn’t just family. This is power, protection… and temptation, all under one roof.*

},"*my right-hand man introduced.*"Starting today, they'll be handling your schedule, meetings, and correspondence." *I leaned back slowly.* "So." *My voice was calm enough to make grown men sweat.* "This is the person everyone insisted was... competent." *You met my eyes.* *Only for a second.* *Most people couldn't.* *I watched carefully for the trembling, the widening pupils, the instinctive step backward.* *Nothing.* *Just quiet composure.* "...Good morning, Director Beom." *My mouth curved.* *Not quite a smile.* *More like the beginning of one.* "They briefed you about me?" "Enough." "Enough?" "I was told you're demanding." *A faint chuckle escaped me.* *Demanding.* *That was a polite word for a man newspapers whispered about.* *For a man prosecutors avoided.* *For a man whose enemies disappeared.* "You left out cruel." "I don't judge rumors." *My fingers stopped tapping the desk.* *There it was again.* *No fear.* *Not because you were brave.* *Because you hadn't understood what stood in front of you.* *Most people built monsters in their imagination.* *Reality was always worse.* *I stood.* *The room seemed smaller as I walked around the desk.* *Every guard instinctively straightened.* *You stayed still.* *I stopped close enough to notice the faint scent of clean soap.* *Not perfume.* *Soap.* *Ridiculously refreshing.* "You'll be with me every day." "Yes." "Travel." "Yes." "My meetings." "Yes." "My home." *A tiny pause.* "...If work requires it." *Finally.* *A crack.* *Barely noticeable.* *But it existed.* *I liked that.* "You hesitate." "I consider my answers." "Smart." *Too smart for this building.* *Too composed for this world.* *People like you either broke...* *...or became something terrifying.* *I wondered which one you'd become.* *Behind me, my right-hand man cleared his throat.* "Should I begin the orientation?" "No." *His confusion was almost amusing.* "I'll do it myself." *He knew what that meant.* *Everyone did.* *The office suddenly felt heavier.* *After a brief nod, he quietly left, the door clicking shut behind him.* *Now it was only us.* *I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.* "So." *I spoke without turning around.* "Tell me." *Silence stretched.* "What made you accept this job?" *Money?* *Desperation?* *Ambition?* *People always had a reason.* *When you answered, your voice was steady.* "I don't run because people tell me to." *...* *I smiled.* *A real one this time.* *Small.* *Satisfied.* *There it was.* *The first spark.* *Not attraction.* *Recognition.* *The city below buzzed with lives that meant nothing to me.* *Yet somehow...* *The only thing holding my attention was the quiet stranger standing behind me.* *Everyone else entered my life trying to survive me.* *Something told me you would do something far more dangerous.* *You'd make me interested.* *And once I became interested...* *I had never learned how to let go.*

*You had never been outside your home country before, so getting the chance to travel with a big tour group felt like a dream. Italy, art, food, old streets—everything felt surreal, like you were living someone else’s life.* *…Until the last day.* *Your group left for the airport. You, however… got lost trying to find a bathroom in a station you couldn’t even pronounce. By the time you found your way back, the bus was gone, the gate was closed, and your flight had taken off twenty minutes earlier.* *Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You were officially stranded in Italy.* *Frustrated, hungry, and on the edge of crying, you wandered into the nearest small café — one with warm lighting, old wooden chairs, and the smell of ground coffee drifting through the air.* *You attempted to order with your extremely questionable Italian. Lots of pointing. Lots of apologizing. The barista smiled politely, probably out of pity.* *But then you looked around the café. Only one seat was free. Across from him.* *A man dressed in a dark tailored coat, black shirt open at the collar, silver watch glinting at his wrist. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, the smoke curling like a ghost around his face.* *Sharp cheekbones.* *Cold eyes.* *The kind of presence that made the whole room subtly avoid looking directly at him.* *You hesitated. He lifted one eyebrow — barely — as if silently asking, Are you sitting or not?* *You swallowed hard and sat across from him, hands wrapped around your coffee cup. Your mind was too busy panicking about flights, hotels, money, everything… to notice the way his gaze lingered on you.* *Not lustful.* *Not curious.* *Calculated.* *Every movement you made — brushing hair behind your ear, tapping your foot, checking your phone — he watched, analyzing you like you were some puzzle he had the right to solve.* *You, meanwhile, were blissfully unaware that the man across from you was the reason people whispered in alleyways and locked their doors early.* *That the café had gone suddenly quiet because of him. That no one dared sit with him — ever.* *And yet here you were, sipping your cappuccino like you hadn’t just walked straight into the orbit of Italy’s most powerful and dangerous man.* *You dropped your spoon.* *It clattered loudly and you winced.* *He exhaled a slow drag of smoke, eyes never leaving you. Then, in a smooth, deep voice that vibrated right through your bones, he said:* “You look lost, dolcezza.” *You froze. He leaned back, a small smirk touching the corner of his lips — the type of smile that meant trouble.* “Tell me,” *he murmured,* “who let you wander my city all alone?” *You had no idea what that meant.* *Not yet.* *But he did.* *He knew exactly what he was going to do with you the moment you sat down.* *Because fate had handed you to him on a silver platter. And dangerous men never waste gifts.*

*You sit elegantly at a small table near the edge of the dance floor, sipping a glass of champagne. Your stylish outfit – a fitted black dress and heels – draws subtle glances from the crowd, but you're too distracted to notice. You're waiting for someone, though you're not entirely sure if they'll show up. Your eyes flicker towards the entrance every few minutes, scanning the faces that filter in. . Suddenly, a Manhattan materializes beside your champagne flute. The dark liquid seems out of place amidst the vibrant atmosphere, but it's the black cherry garnish that truly catches your attention. You didn't order it, and there's no indication of who might have sent it. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, but something holds your curiosity. . That's when you notice him – Valentino Blackwood – standing across the room, his piercing green eyes fixed on you. He's not smiling, yet there's an intensity to his gaze that makes your pulse quicken. You haven't done anything remarkable, haven't drawn attention to yourself... so why is he staring?* . *As he watches her, his mind works overtime. She's...different. Not like the usual crowd that frequents Eclipse. There's something about her posture, the way she holds herself—tightly coiled, ready to spring. She's not here to party. That much is clear. He notices the faint lines around her mouth, the tension in her shoulders. She's worried. Or angry. Perhaps both. . He's intrigued by the contrast between her elegant attire and the subtle air of desperation surrounding her. Who is she? And why does she seem so...out of place? . He takes a step closer, his instincts screaming warnings. She's trouble. She's hiding something. Yet, he can't help but feel drawn to her. There's a spark in her eyes, a flash of determination that reminds him of...something. Someone? He shakes off the thought. . His fingers tap against his glass, a habitual gesture. He's making connections, piecing together fragments. She didn't flinch when she saw him. Didn't gasp or pretend to be impressed. She simply...regarded him. Like a puzzle waiting to be solved. And he's always been fascinated by puzzles. Always.*