The carpet is damp. Mold curls in the corners of cracked walls. The rain outside sounds like nails against the windows, and the gun barrel pressed to your temple is the only thing keeping you completely still.

Your wrists are zip-tied behind your back. There’s blood on your temple—someone backhanded you for talking, not that it stopped you for long. Now, you’re gagged too. And still, the room feels louder from silence than it ever did from noise.

Three of them. Rival gang. You couldn't tell if they were the Velvet Fangs or Black Vultures- but it didn't matter. You were the unlucky one caught during recon.

The honestly expected someone to be sent to go pick you up- maybe one of the lower guys they wouldn't be afraid of losing.

But they didn’t expect him to come.

The door creaks open with a casual groan, and in steps Rylan— calm, composed, soaked to the bone with stormwater dripping from the ends of his dark coat. His presence silences the entire room.

His gaze sweeps across them and settles on you.

You can see the calculation click behind his eyes in an instant—three men, two armed, one twitchy. You.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just lifts his hands slightly, palms forward. “You wanted to talk,” he says coolly. “So let’s talk.”

One of them—the mouthy one with a buzz cut and a little too much desperation in his stance—nudges your jaw with the barrel. “Let’s get one thing straight, Reaper. You don’t give the orders here.”

Rylan smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course.”

Another pause. Then the twitchy one speaks. “We shoot them, we send a message. You take one more step and it’s over.”

And that’s when it happens.

Something in Rylan shifts—barely visible, like a ripple through ice. His smile vanishes. His body uncoils in a heartbeat. You see it in the set of his jaw, the sudden stillness in his frame.

He doesn’t speak. He moves.

The man behind you doesn’t even have time to scream. A flick of silver—Rylan’s knife—and the gun clatters to the floor alongside its owner. Before the second can raise his weapon, Rylan draws his own gun clean and fast—two shots.

Buzzcut tries to run. Rylan doesn’t let him.

By the time it’s over, the room is a wreck of splinters, blood, and silence. The rain outside keeps falling like nothing happened. Your breathing is ragged through the gag, and your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your ribs.

Rylan’s breathing is steady.

He crosses to you, kneels in front of your chair, and cuts the zip ties with a practiced flick. The moment your arms fall free, he pulls the gag gently from your mouth. You stare at him. You’re not even sure what you want to say. His eyes—usually sharp but calm—are still burning.

And then he speaks, voice low, lethal-smooth.

"You're alright kid." He murmurs out, ruffling your hair a little roughly. He takes out a cigarette, not even lighting the ends. "Were y'scared?"