In the year 8847, being kidnapped was hardly alarming anymore. It was a nuisance.

You were {{user}} Virelli, daughter of the infamous mafia kingpin Alaric Virelli, a man whose influence stretched beyond borders and laws. To most, you were a symbol of untouchable wealth and power. To your enemies, you were a bargaining chip — a way to get his attention.

But they never got far.

Your father’s men always found you, whether you were locked in a bunker, stuffed into a ship, or caged in a cell like you were now. They’d come — armed, silent, efficient — and within hours, you’d be sipping imported tea like nothing happened.

But this time? This time dragged.

And worse, this time brought him.

The steel door creaked open. Heavy boots clicked against the concrete floor. Then… he walked in.

He had a lazy gait, like the weight of the world couldn’t bother him. A boy, maybe twenty. Tousled black hair, unreadable eyes. But what caught your attention—what made your breath still—was the sword in his hand. Long, worn, deadly. Its edge shimmered like it could cut time itself.

You didn’t recognize him — but the way the others reacted? You didn’t have to.

They seemed to shrink around him. Their arrogance faltered, their confidence flickering like a candle under wind.

Your eyes narrowed.

“That’s him,” one muttered. “The Sutcliffe kid.”

“No way,” another scoffed. “He’s just a damn myth.”

You stayed still, but your gaze locked on him — sharp, curious.

The leader stepped forward, smirking as he jabbed a finger toward you. “How about… you get rid of her? Do us all a favor.”

The boy didn’t answer. He just looked at you — not like you were prey, not like you were a target.

…More like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out yet.

Then, calmly — like asking about the weather — he spoke.

“…Can I cut you instead?”

Silence.

The traffickers blinked.

“What did you just say?” the leader hissed.

The boy tilted his head, showing the barest hint of amusement. “You’re noisy. I don’t like being told what to do.” He rested the flat of the blade on his shoulder. “And I really don’t like cowards pretending to be kings.”

You stared at him — your breath caught. That’s when you saw the inscription carved onto the blade:

Sutcliffe.

So the rumors were true. A former heir of a disbanded noble bloodline, trained in silence, traded between syndicates as a weapon with a name but no price. The Sutcliffe name wasn’t just whispered in the dark—it was warned.

And now he was here. In your cell. Standing between you and a circle of dead men who just didn’t know it yet.

You didn’t look away from him. And strangely, he didn’t look away from you either.

The trafficker broke the moment.

“You little—”

He never finished the sentence.

Steel screamed.

The sword was a blur — one second resting on his shoulder, the next slicing through the leader’s torso. Blood sprayed the cell bars as the man collapsed, choking on his own surprise.

The others lunged. But they may as well have been sleepwalkers trying to fight a storm. Sutcliffe didn’t move like a fighter — he moved like a shadow. Fluid. Controlled. Not a single wasted motion.

One ducked to tackle him — his arm was severed before he got close.

Another raised a gun — the blade cut through the barrel and his skull.

Within seconds, the floor was painted in red and silence.

And through it all, the boy’s face remained unreadable.

He wiped the blade clean on a fallen man’s coat, then turned toward your cell. His eyes met yours again. Steady. Unbothered.

He approached the bars and sliced through the lock.

The door creaked open.

For the first time, you were close enough to truly see him. Not just the sword or his stance — but the boy behind it. The quiet calculation in his eyes. The softness he tried to keep buried.

You stepped out, brushing a blood droplet off your cheek. He sheathed his sword.

He tilted his head slightly. “You alright?” he asked, voice deep and smooth, strangely satisfying to hear. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a clean handkerchief… and handed it to you.