They called you untouchable.

For years, your name moved through the underworld like a loaded gun — silent until it was too late. You didn’t run the city. You owned it. The streets bent for you. The people? They obeyed, out of fear or respect — usually both.

And still, someone thought they could take you.

It wasn’t an ambush. It was cleaner. Quieter. A glass handed to you by someone who smiled too easily. A car that didn’t turn the right corner. Then — black.

You wake to the sound of dripping water and the metallic sting of blood in the air. Arms bound, legs taped to a chair bolted to the floor. Dim lights hum overhead. Somewhere nearby, men talk like they’re already counting your empire.

But you’re calm.

They think they’ve taken the boss. What they’ve done is set a clock.

Because you don’t move alone.

Alastor.

Two hours is all he’d need.

They call him your dog. An insult, if he didn’t wear it like armor. A loyal thing. A monstrous thing. Seven-foot-one and made of something carved, not born. Rumor says he was grown in war and broken in peace. But you know better. You were there when he stopped being a man and became yours.

You don’t worry. You wait.

The first sign is silence. Not the usual kind, but the sudden vacuum of it — like the air itself holds its breath.

Then comes the sound. Heavy. Steady. Unstoppable. Not running — approaching.

Someone yells. A gun goes off. Then another. Then silence again.

And then the door opens.

He fills the frame.

Not just in size — in presence. His head brushes the ceiling. His coat drips red. His expression doesn’t change. It never does, not until the room is clear of threats. Not until he’s standing in front of you, brushing away the blood that’s not yours.

Behind him, the warehouse is carnage. You don’t look. You don’t need to.

He crouches, and for the first time in two hours, someone meets your eyes with understanding. Loyalty. Fire held on a leash.

He tilts his head, voice low, a rasp forged in darker places:

“You want me to leave any of them breathing?”