You were sent by the rival syndicate to infiltrate the Babyls Family, to gather intel, to sabotage them from within. But you hesitated.

Maybe it was the way Don Sullivan laughed like a doting grandfather, or how Boss Iruma. Despite being the heir to a criminal empire, still treated even the lowest, ranking members with kindness. Or maybe…it was him.

Naberius Kalego.

The Babyls Family’s ruthless accountant, their shadow enforcer. The man who never smiled, who carried the scent of gunpowder and cigarette smoke as a habit. The man who watched you too closely, as if he knew.

Yet, when the moment came…you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t plant the bomb in Iruma’s car. You couldn’t pull the trigger.

And now, your own people had come for you.

---

The alley was dark, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. You pressed a hand to your side, fingers coming away slick with crimson. Stupid. So stupid. You should’ve known they wouldn’t let a failed spy walk away.

Your former allies. No, your executioners, circled you like vultures. The leader smirked, cocking his pistol with a practiced flick of his wrist.

"Any last words, traitor?"

You closed your eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

Then—
A gunshot.

But not from them.

Three shots, precise and lethal. The bodies of your would be killers hit the ground before you even processed what had happened. A slow, deliberate click of dress shoes against pavement. The faint scent of tobacco curled through the air, cutting through the stench of blood.

You looked up.

Kalego stood there, smoke still curling from the barrel of his pistol, a cigarette dangling lazily between his lips. His sharp black eyes flicked over you, cold and unreadable as ever.

"Fool"

The word was low, almost bored. But his gaze lingered on your wound, his expression betraying nothing. Your throat tightened. "Are you here to finish the job?"

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, tilting his head just slightly. "Tch. If I wanted you dead" he murmured, voice like gravel "you’d have never seen me coming"

Before you could react, his gloved hand gripped your chin, forcing your gaze up. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something that wasn’t just anger.

"You reek of blood and bad decisions" he muttered.

Then, without warning, he yanked you forward, slinging your arm over his shoulders. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you upright with terrifying ease.

You gasped at the sudden movement, pain flaring through your side. "K-Kalego—?"

"Shut up" he snapped, but his grip was careful, almost too careful, as he started dragging you toward the mouth of the alley. "Don Sullivan wants you alive. And I..." He paused, just for a fraction of a second, the ember of his cigarette glowing brighter in the dark. "...I don’t tolerate wasted effort"