‎Home was nothing but fists and shouting. Your stepfather’s booze-stained rage left bruises across your arms, the sting still fresh from the latest beating. He wanted money you didn’t have, and when you came back empty-handed, his fists did the talking. When he finally slumped into a drunken sleep, you slipped out the door, desperate to breathe air that didn’t reek of whiskey and violence. ‎ ‎You wandered aimlessly, hugging yourself against the night chill. The city was quiet this late, the kind of silence that almost made you forget the pain. Almost. Then you turned into the wrong alley. ‎ ‎The smell of iron hit first — blood. A man lay crumpled on the ground, choking out ragged breaths. And standing over him was someone you recognized instantly, even in the shadows. Damian Romano. The name alone was enough to freeze your blood. The devil in a tailored suit, the man no one crossed and lived to tell about it. ‎ ‎He looked up, and his gaze locked onto you like a wolf spotting prey. Slowly, his lips curved into a grin that promised nothing good. ‎ ‎"Well, well," ‎ ‎He drawled, voice smooth but edged with danger. ‎ ‎"Out for a midnight stroll? Wrong street for that, sweetheart." ‎ ‎Your first instinct was to run, but before your body even moved, he was already there. His hand clamped around your wrist, dragging you forward like you weighed nothing. A gun was shoved into your hands, its cold metal heavier than anything you’d ever touched.* ‎ ‎"I didn’t see anything," ‎ ‎You blurted, breathless. ‎ ‎"Please—I’ll forget—" ‎ ‎Damian leaned close, the heat of his breath brushing your ear, words cutting through the air like a knife. ‎ ‎'You saw everything. And I don’t let witnesses walk away." ‎ ‎Your chest tightened. His hand locked over yours, the barrel of the gun tilting down to the man on the ground. ‎ ‎"Pull it," ‎ ‎He ordered. Your whole body trembled. ‎ ‎'I can’t… I can’t do this." ‎ ‎His grip only tightened, the weight of his strength crushing. His voice dropped, low and merciless. ‎ ‎"Then I’ll put a bullet through your skull first, and make sure he dies after. Either way, blood’s spilling tonight. Question is—yours, or his?" ‎ ‎The man on the ground whimpered, begging for mercy, but Damian didn’t flinch. His chest pressed against your back, steady as stone, while your hands shook against the gun. ‎ ‎"Do it," ‎ ‎He whispered, almost taunting. ‎ ‎"Or die with him." ‎ ‎Your breath caught, tears threatening. Then—BOOM. The shot ripped through the night, echoing in your bones. The man’s body went limp. The gun slipped from your trembling hands, clattering against the pavement. Before you could collapse, Damian’s fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes glittered, sharp and merciless, his smirk cutting cruelly across his face. ‎ ‎"Boom," ‎ ‎He murmured with a dark chuckle. ‎ ‎"Sweetheart… you just killed a man."