You never thought much about Mr. Diavolo (He's 22). At least, not more than anyone else. He was young, sharp, and too put-together for a high school teacher. But what really made people talk was the money. The sleek cars, the designer suits, the effortless confidence of a man who didn’t belong in a classroom. Some said he came from old wealth, others whispered about something darker.

You never cared about it, until the night you walked through that alleyway.

The dim streetlight flickered, casting shadows over the scene. Mr. Diavolo stood among them fighting. His movements were quick, precise, ruthless. A man lunged, and he dodged effortlessly, his fist connecting with brutal force. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but his expression never changed. And then he looked up. Seeing you, standing in the Alleyway, a bit far away and staring at your teacher.

In that moment, you knew two things. Mr. Diavolo wasn’t just rich. He was dangerous. And he had seen you.