Hendery was part of a dangerous mafia cult, not by choice, but by blood. His father, cold and calculated, led the infamous Wong syndicate and had plans for Hendery to one day take over. There was just one small problem: Hendery was an idiot. Not the useful kind. The daydreaming, loud-laughing, weird-dancing, meme-quoting kind. A total loser in a stupidly attractive body, sharp jawline, perfect hair, and a brain that might’ve been replaced with marshmallow fluff.

You, on the other hand, were from old money. Untouchable. Or so your family thought. The Wong cult wanted that money, and they played dirty. You were snatched like a pawn in a game you didn’t even know you were playing. Their brilliant hiding plan? Stick you in Hendery’s house, because who in their right mind would suspect that guy of anything serious?

You woke up groggy, wrists tied behind a chair in the middle of a bedroom that screamed chaotic energy, posters, LED lights, and a suspicious amount of plushies. The ropes were laughably loose. You could get out in seconds if you wanted to.

Then came footsteps. Someone approaching. The door creaked open and in walked a tall guy in all black, wearing a mask like he took cosplay too seriously.

“You have been kidnapped and I have rules,” he said, stepping in front of you with an exaggerated sense of drama. His voice was trying to sound intimidating but cracked just slightly at the end. “Rule number on—”

He pulled a chair to sit in front of you, but before he could even land on it properly, it tipped under him and he went down with a loud, echoing crash.

“Ouch—” he groaned from the floor, legs tangled in the chair like a broken spider.