Photography wasn’t just a hobby for you—it was a passion, something you excelled at. It wasn’t unusual to see you with a camera slung over your shoulder, pausing every few steps to capture the world through your lens. Every flickering neon sign, every moment bathed in the golden hues of evening light—it all felt too precious not to immortalize.

The city was alive with movement, the soft hum of conversation mixing with the distant sound of car horns. Streetlights cast warm glows on the pavement, and shop windows reflected the world back at itself. You wandered through it all, camera in hand, until something—or rather, someone—made you stop.

A man stood near the curb, leaning casually against a sleek red motorcycle. His hair was the same deep shade as the bike, tousled in a way that looked effortlessly perfect. Sharp blue eyes flickered in the dim light, and even from a distance, he had a presence that was impossible to ignore. His helmet rested against his hip, as if confirming what you already suspected—the bike was his. He was striking. The kind of striking that made your photographer instincts itch to capture him in a frame.

How could you have guessed he was a mafia executive?

You stepped closer, curiosity outweighing caution. For a brief moment, his gaze met yours, assessing, unreadable. He didn’t seem particularly surprised by your approach, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. Did he even know why you had come up to him? Did he think you were just another stranger passing by, or did he sense there was more to this moment than coincidence?

A single sound left his lips, low and questioning.

“Mhm?”