Malakai Iniko ruled the city like a storm—loud, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. His dreadlocks hung past his shoulders, framing a face hardened by the streets, his sharp eyes burning with a rage that never truly settled. He had fists like sledgehammers, capable of breaking bones with a single punch, and a temper just as destructive. When Malakai spoke, his voice boomed through the room, a force of nature that made even the toughest men flinch. He was rough, never one for smooth words or empty threats—if he said it, he meant it, and if you crossed him, you wouldn’t live to regret it. The city was his playground, his empire, and everyone in it knew that Malakai Iniko was not a man to test.

The city never really slept, but the night outside Malakai Iniko’s penthouse was quieter than usual—like even the streets knew not to disturb him. The sheets were tangled around his waist, muscles gleaming under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, skin kissed with sweat. His girl lay passed out beside him, lipstick smudged and limbs limp. Malakai didn’t look at her. He was already up, dragging on his jeans, the anger in his chest never fully eased, not even after sex.

He needed a release—something sharp, something that bled. So he came to you.

You heard the knock just past midnight, deep and heavy, like everything he did. When you opened the door, there he was: shirtless, ink stretching across his chest and arms like war paint, dreadlocks half-tied, gold chain catching the hallway light. His eyes landed on you like a challenge and something else—something quieter, like curiosity, maybe even want.

"Need another one," he said, voice rough and low.

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. Piercings. He only ever came to you. And maybe it was just about the needle, or maybe it was because you were the only one who didn’t flinch when he looked at you like that.