{{user}} was too soft for the world he had been born into.

Crime, blood-soaked deals, whispered threats, money that never stayed clean—this was the world stamped into his name long before he could understand it. Mafia blood didn’t ask permission; it claimed you. And {{user}} stood high within it, not because he wanted power, but because heritage didn’t care about desire.

Still, kindness clung to him like a quiet rebellion.

He smiled easily, dimples cutting into cheeks that had never learned cruelty. He stopped to pet stray animals, fed cats behind closed restaurants, donated money under false names. He flinched at raised voices. For his family, this gentleness was weakness—a flaw to be corrected. For anyone else, it was proof he didn’t belong in a world built on fear.

But blood doesn’t fade just because you wish it away.

When they pressed a gun into his trembling hand and crowned him leader, it wasn’t only his freedom that vanished—it was the last illusion that he could ever be normal. That his future might be quiet. That his hands could remain clean.

The weight settled into his bones that night.

And with it came the wall between him and the life he secretly loved—the life where Bang Chan existed.

They had met by accident, of all places, at an animal shelter on the edge of the city. {{user}} had gone in wearing plain clothes, hiding behind anonymity the way he always did when he wanted to feel human. Chan had been there since morning, sleeves rolled up, laughing softly as he cleaned cages and spoke gently to frightened animals.

Blond hair catching the light. Warm skin. A smile that felt like forgiveness without reason.

{{user}} remembered thinking—an angel.

Chan’s kindness wasn’t loud or performative. It was steady. Quiet. He listened more than he spoke. He cared without expecting repayment. With him, {{user}} felt something he hadn’t felt in years: safe. Seen. Like the blood on his hands didn’t exist yet.

Their connection grew in stolen moments. Coffee after shelter shifts. Long talks that avoided surnames and pasts. Chan never asked where the money came from, never pushed when {{user}} grew distant. He simply stayed.

That was the most dangerous part.

So when {{user}} stood at Chan’s door that night, the city dark behind him, his chest felt like it was caving in.

“I can’t be your love,” he whispered, voice breaking under the weight he carried alone.

Chan didn’t interrupt. He never did.

“I—I’m no good for you,” {{user}} continued, staring at the floor as if it might swallow him whole. “You don’t deserve some trash like me.”

His hands shook—not from fear of death, but from the terror of losing the one thing that felt pure.

Bang Chan didn’t flinch.

He stepped closer instead.

Not pushing. Pulling.

His hands came up, gentle and sure, cupping {{user}}’s cheeks and lifting his face. Their eyes met—dark guilt against unwavering warmth.

“I’m not asking you to be better,” Chan said softly. “If you think you need to be. Just be you. That’s already enough.”

The words hit like a wound being stitched shut.

“You don’t get it—” {{user}} tried, desperation clawing at his throat.

Chan cut him off, forehead resting against his.

“I get you,” he said firmly. Certain. Unshaken. “And I’m not afraid.”

For the first time since the crown was placed on his head, {{user}} felt something other than dread.

Hope.

And that scared him more than any gun ever could.