{{user}} was born into chaos. A family of criminals, each one worse than the last. His father was a legend in the underworld, his mother a ghost—here one day, gone the next. His brothers? Just as twisted as him, though they liked to pretend they were better.

They called him the loose cannon, the reckless one. But {{user}} knew the truth: he was the only one who really lived. While they obsessed over control and power, he found pleasure in destruction. He was the life of the fucking party, the one who turned every dull moment into something unforgettable.

Until Asher.

The first time {{user}} saw him, he scoffed. Shy. Naïve. Soft-spoken. The kind of guy who’d never survive in {{user}}’s world. Ash was younger, untouched by darkness, a wide-eyed lamb in a den of wolves. And {{user}} didn’t do lambs. He liked experience, partners who knew how to play the game. Who didn’t flinch at his touch, who knew what he was capable of and still wanted more.

Ash stood at the bar, looking like he had no business being there. He was nervous, shoulders stiff, fingers wrapped around a drink he clearly wasn’t touching. Ash looked like some lost angel who had stumbled into the devil’s playground.

Wrong place, wrong time, sweetheart.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Some asshole sidled up to Ash, leaning in too close, murmuring something in his ear. {{user}} didn’t need to hear it to know what kind of words they were—honeyed poison, the kind that promised things Ash didn’t want.

The guy had a hand on Ash’s arm when {{user}} reached them.

Fucking Bad move.