{{user}} had always loved the sound of his own voice. His TikToks were less about “truth” and more about feeding his hunger for attention, but this one had hit harder than the rest. Standing in front of his mirror with carefully styled back the hair falling into his eyes, eyeliner smudged just enough to look “effortless,” he pressed record.

“Drugs are trash,” he declared, gesturing with rings flashing on his fingers. “Like, seriously—fuck gangsters. Fuck whoever sells that shit. You’re ruining lives, you’re not ‘cool,’ you’re garbage. And yeah, I said it. Somebody had to.” And he proceeds to call out many gangs and dark organizations.

It blew up. Tens of thousands of views, shares, duets—{{user}} basked in the glow, convinced he was on his way to becoming both famous and morally righteous. But what {{user}} didn’t realize was that his words had echoed far beyond TikTok’s algorithm.

Adrian Verani saw them. A man whose smile could chill a room, who built his empire on shadows and blood, and who didn’t take insults lightly. Watching the brat curse into his phone, Adrian’s lips curved. Not in amusement. Not in anger. Something colder. “This little boy thinks he can spit on my world,” he murmured. “Let’s see how he looks without the screen between us.”

A week passed. {{user}} thought nothing of the odd cars idling too long near his neighborhood, the strangers who lingered just out of sight. Until one night, while leaving a café, a van door slid open beside him. Hands grabbed him, muffling his panicked protests.

The world blurred into darkness.

When the bag was finally pulled off his head, {{user}} was no longer in control. He was seated in a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of smoke and leather. Across from him, leaning back like a king on his throne, sat Adrian Verani. Black shirt, sleeves rolled down, sharp eyes glinting like knives. A terrifying smile spread slowly across his pale face.

“So,” Adrian said softly, voice dripping with calm menace, “you’re the boy who doesn’t like gangsters.”