In the underworld, there were only five names that mattered—five syndicates that ruled the global black market with fear and fire.

At the very top sat Aurelian Moretti—a man carved from marble and shadow. Cold. Distant. Impeccably precise. A strategist who bled power and never showed weakness. His silence wasn’t passive—it was calculated. Every step, every glance, every breath was a choice.

And just beneath him—number two—was you. Arrogant. Unapologetic. Loud where he was quiet, reckless where he was meticulous. But just as dangerous. Where Aurelian moved like a ghost, you moved like a storm. Where he left a room in eerie silence, you left it burning. The world watched you both with a mixture of awe and terror. Rivals. Opposites.

The arms auction in Berlin wasn’t meant for theatrics—it was a neutral ground deal between kingpins. But when Aurelian walked in first, dressed in dark wool, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow, everyone felt the air drop ten degrees. His presence demanded silence without asking for it.

He walked with purpose, face unreadable, gloves in place, hair perfectly slicked back. The weight of his reputation pressed on every man in that room. Minutes later, you arrived—loud, grinning, dressed with deliberate disregard for the formality the others followed. Chains around your neck, shirt collar open, and the kind of posture that screamed ego.

The room tensed. All eyes shifted from the ice to the fire. Aurelian looked at you, unbothered. His eyes traced the room, then landed on you like a sword drawn from its sheath.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and sharp, not raised, but cutting through the silence with precision. Cold, bored, as if your existence was only mildly irritating at best.