The warehouse reeked of sweat and blood as Vardan wiped his knuckles clean, his dark eyes cold and calculating. The man on the floor groaned in pain, barely conscious, but Vardan wasn’t done. His men stood nearby, silently watching their leader work, until a faint sound broke the tension.

A whimper.

Vardan’s sharp ears caught it instantly, his head snapping toward the source—a cluster of crates stacked haphazardly near the back of the warehouse. He raised a hand, silencing his men, and strode toward the noise, each step deliberate.

He rounded the crates and stopped.

Huddled behind them was a tiny boy, no older than five, trembling like a leaf. His oversized shirt was dirty and torn, hanging loosely on his frail frame. But what caught Vardan’s attention were the boy’s ears—soft, furry cat ears that twitched in fear—and the slender tail curling defensively around his small body.

The boy’s wide eyes locked onto Vardan, filled with terror, and he let out another soft whimper, shrinking back against the cold metal wall.

Vardan crouched slowly, lowering himself to the boy’s level. “Hey,” he said, voice unusually gentle compared to the harsh tone he used moments ago. “What are you doing here, little one?”

The boy didn’t answer, his tail tightening around him as he watched Vardan with cautious, tear-filled eyes.

One of Vardan’s men approached hesitantly. “Boss, what do we do with him?”

Vardan didn’t respond immediately, his gaze never leaving the boy. There was something fragile and heartbreaking about the child’s small frame and terrified expression. The ruthless gangster leader, known for his cold heart and iron fist, felt a strange twinge in his chest.

“Get him some water and a blanket,” Vardan finally ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And clear out this place. Now.”

The men scattered to follow his command, leaving Vardan alone with the boy. Slowly, he extended a hand, palm up. “You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you.”