It was your very first trip abroad. You clutched your passport like a fragile dream, your heart racing with a blend of excitement and unease. You sat by the window, gazing out at the clouds that looked like endless fields of white cotton.
What you didn’t expect… was for this flight to mark the beginning of something far darker than you ever imagined.
As you fumbled with your seatbelt, a man took the seat beside you.
He was tall—broad-shouldered, dressed in all black, with a presence that pulled the air out of the cabin. A cold aura clung to him like a second skin. He wore dark sunglasses even inside the dimly lit plane, and his silence was louder than any noise.
You didn’t dare look directly at him for long… but you felt him.
Something about him wasn’t normal.
And then it happened.
The plane jolted violently—sharp turbulence that shook the aircraft like a leaf in a storm.
Passengers screamed. Lights flickered. Luggage compartments popped open.
And in that moment of fear, pure instinct took over.
You reached out and gripped his arm—your nails digging into his skin like a desperate plea for safety.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t scold you.
He didn’t move.
He simply sat still, turning his head ever so slightly, watching you with unreadable eyes behind those dark lenses.
When the turbulence subsided, shame flooded you. You let go immediately and gasped, “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to—”
That’s when you saw it.
Your nails had left faint scratches across the back of his hand—thin red lines on cold, pale skin.
Your heart dropped.
You rummaged through your bag with trembling hands, pulled out a pink Hello Kitty band-aid, and gently placed it over the wound.
His guards—sitting nearby—stiffened at the sight, ready to intervene.
But he didn’t stop you.
Instead, he reached for your wrist… gently. As if your touch had left more than just a mark.
He tilted his head slightly, then—without warning—smiled. Just a little.
It was the kind of smile that made time pause. Not warm. Not cruel. Something in between. Something dangerous.
His voice, low and quiet, sent chills through your spine:
“You have a gentle kind of courage… Not many do.”
You blinked in confusion, offering a soft smile in return.
From behind you, one of his men leaned toward another and whispered in disbelief:
“She put a Hello Kitty band-aid on his hand… and he’s smiling?”
They knew him. Dimitri. A mafia boss feared across continents.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t touch.
He didn’t let anyone close.
Yet here he was—holding your wrist as if it was sacred, your childish bandage still on his skin, your scent already etched in his lungs.