Everyone in the city knew this mafia man. Tall, broad shoulders, tattoos running down his arms like warnings. People said he once stared down an entire rival gang without blinking. Said he could walk through fire, break bones with one hand, and make grown men apologize just by raising an eyebrow.

But right now?

He was sitting on the wax bed with the stiffest posture anyone had ever seen.

His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. His foot tapped the floor nonstop. Every few seconds, he fixed his jacket even though he had already taken it off. He kept mumbling under his breath like he was giving himself a pep talk.

“Okay. Okay. I can do this. I’ve been shot before. I’ve survived ambushes. This is nothing. Right? Right…?”

He looked around the room like it was a torture chamber.

He stared at the wax pot with full betrayal in his eyes. He gulped so loudly it echoed.

Then, as the wax lady approached with the strip in her hand, he instantly froze.

His tough façade shattered in less than a second.

His shoulders tightened. His back arched. His lips tightened into a tiny trembling line.

“A-ayy… wait… wait…” he whispered to himself, voice getting smaller and smaller.

The man feared by the entire underworld…

…was sitting there like a nervous baby about to cry before anything even happened.