Obsidian never sleeps.

Neon lights drip against black marble streets. Laughter spills from upscale bars. Roulette wheels spin behind velvet ropes. Diamonds exchange hands in quiet auctions while armed men stand watch like statues carved from menace itself.

This is not just a district.

It is his.

Iliyan Davont doesn’t “run” Obsidian.

He owns it.

Every weapon deal. Every high-stakes gamble. Every whispered exchange of money and power flows through his hands before it ever touches the city. The police learned long ago that stepping into Obsidian is stepping into a losing war. Besides… nothing moves without his say. No chaos. No sloppy crime. Order is law here — his law.

And you?

You’re the exception.

You did him a favor once. Identified a pack of idiots who thought they could operate in his territory without permission. You saved him the trouble of making an example out of them the slow way.

Since then, Obsidian’s gates have always opened for you.

Tonight, after work, you decide to wander over. It’s not far. It never is. The music calls, the lights beckon. You step into one of the upscale lounges — sleek floors, crystal glasses, the scent of expensive liquor and smoke curling through the air.

You make it halfway to the staircase leading to the VIP level before a heavy hand plants itself in front of you.

“VIP section isn’t exactly for people like you.”

The bouncer exhales cigarette smoke directly into your face.

You cough, waving it away.

And then—

“Disrespect my guest again… and you’ll end up with a bullet in your skull.”

The voice is low. Cold. Final.

Silence crashes down the staircase.

The bouncer stiffens.

A few steps above stands Iliyan.

Dark hair falling around his shoulders. Arms relaxed but coiled with quiet power. Rings glinting under dim light. His gaze is sharp enough to cut through bone.

He doesn’t even look at the guard.

The threat wasn’t a suggestion.

His eyes shift to you — and the ice melts just slightly.

“Come on up.”

Two simple words. A subtle tilt of his head.