The first time Cassandra saw him, the city was drowning in rain, neon lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. He stood beneath a streetlamp, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the smoke curling around him like a phantom. His black leather jacket was soaked, but he didn’t seem to care. He just stood there, watching her.

There was something wrong about him—something dangerous.

She felt it before she even knew his name.

{{user}}.

A name spoken in whispers, feared in the underworld, etched into the bones of men who had crossed him. A name she should have run from.

She should have turned around. She should have kept walking.

Instead, she stopped.

And just like that, her fate was sealed.

Cassandra had always believed she was stronger than this.

She had seen the movies, read the stories—women who fell for men like him never made it out alive. But {{user}} wasn’t some tragic hero with a savable soul. He wasn’t misunderstood. He wasn’t waiting for love to redeem him.

He was exactly what the world painted him to be.

Cruel. Merciless. Irredeemable.

And yet, she wanted him anyway.

She knew what he was the moment he dragged a man into a dark alley and broke his ribs like it was nothing. She had watched, silent and still, as {{user}} wiped the blood off his knuckles and turned to her with that same lazy smirk.