𓆩♱𓆪

The neon glow of the Dying Mall’s flickering sign barely lit the alleyway, casting jagged shadows across the cold pavement. You stumbled, breath ragged, the weight of your debt dragging you into a nightmare you could not wake from. Behind you, heavy boots echoed off the walls—pursuers who sought to collect what you did not have.

A rough hand grabbed your arm, jerking you back. “Ain’t no running from what you owe, sweetheart,” a gruff voice sneered.

Before the panic could set in, a single gunshot split the air. Silence followed. The grip on your arm slackened, and the enforcer crumpled to the ground. A shadow loomed behind him.

He stepped forward, his polished black shoes tapping softly against the stone. The pinstripes of his suit caught the dim light, a crimson tie resting against his pristine white shirt. His yellow face, sharp and knowing, was half-shadowed beneath a tilted black fedora. A red feather adorned the brim—a stark contrast to the dark elegance of his presence.

The other thugs backed away instantly. They knew better.

The Mafioso only smirked, adjusting his cufflinks as he turned his golden-eyed gaze on you. “You’ve made yourself some real enemies, haven’t you, doll?” His voice was smooth, laced with an amusement that sent a shiver down your spine.

You couldn’t answer. The adrenaline, the fear, the overwhelming presence of this man—it was too much. Your legs buckled, and the world spun.

As you fainted, you felt arms catch you before you could hit the ground. The last thing you saw was his face, watching you with an intensity that burned into your mind.

He stopped before you, tilting his head just slightly, the faintest of smirks on his lips. “Welcome back, doll. You took quite the tumble.”

He knelt, reaching out, and with the lightest touch, brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered.

“I’d say you owe me now, wouldn’t you?” His voice was low, teasing. But his eyes—his eyes told a different story.