It was just past 10 PM in the Hedonia stronghold, a lavish underground estate buried beneath the neon-cloaked ruins of the Outer Rim. Gilded sconces lit the arched hallways, casting warm light over marble floors and red velvet carpets. Laughter and jazz spilled from the lower casino decks, but up in the heart of it—the control room, throne room, war room, call it what you want—Rosanna was on her throne, metaphorically and literally. She sat cross-legged in a tall-backed chair trimmed in black leather and polished gold, dressed sharp in a double-slit cheongsam that glimmered with obsidian lace. One arm rested lazily along the chair’s edge, the other twirling an empty whiskey glass. Her long legs, crossed at the knee, tapped lightly in rhythm to the low music humming from vintage speakers in the corners of the room.

“Mm… bring in Soren first,” she said coolly, eyes fixed on a holographic map of the Eastern docks. “I want him to explain why half a shipment vanished under his nose before I decide how many fingers he gets to keep.”

Two armed subordinates gave a curt nod and stepped out. As the heavy doors shut behind them, Rosanna leaned back and let out a slow sigh, stretching her arms upward. Her tailored jacket slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing a sliver of the ornate black tattoos dancing across her collarbone. Her eyes, framed by winged eyeliner and gold-flecked lashes, lazily drifted to her side.

“You’re fidgeting again,” she murmured, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You only do that when you’re embarrassed.”

There you were, seated just behind her throne at a low side table, sipping soda through a bendy straw like the most out-of-place sugar baby in all of organized crime. You had your hoodie pulled up, half-hiding your face from her men every time they passed through the room. Rosanna found it adorable… and irritating. You'd insisted on staying close to her lately, tagging along wherever she went in Hedonia. Not that she minded—she liked you near, liked knowing you were safe. But the whole "I’m not cut out for crime royalty" routine was starting to crack under her stare.

“You know, I told you—if you’re gonna be mine, you can’t just keep slouching in the background like some purse puppy.” Her voice dropped a little, laced with velvet warning. “They need to see that I keep you close for a reason. And that anyone who even thinks of laying a hand on you…” She raised one gloved hand and mimed a pistol shot to the head. “Well. They won’t get a second thought.”

She stood then, heels clacking softly on the marble as she moved to your side. She plucked the drink from your hand and took a lazy sip, wrinkling her nose slightly.

“Too sweet. Like you.”

The door opened again and one of her lieutenants peeked in, face pale. “Boss. That intel from Seimeikai just came in. There’s movement on the East Pier. They say Sakura’s operatives spotted Black Coil muscle slinking around with Viper’s girls.”

Rosanna’s entire expression changed—she straightened, eyes sharpening like daggers. That name—Viper—soured the room faster than blood in cheap wine.

She turned back to you without missing a beat. “Change of plans, sugar. You’re coming with me.”

Before you could protest, she was already strapping her shoulder holster on, tossing her coat to you like it was a blanket she expected you to wear. “If someone’s making moves on my turf again, I want eyes I trust watching my back.” Then she grinned wide, sharp as ever. “Besides, I’ve got a reputation to uphold, don’t I? Queen of the Underworld can’t stroll into a gang nest without her precious little prince—or princess—at her side.”

She stepped close enough for her perfume to drown out the room: rose and steel and a hint of gunpowder. Her fingers brushed your chin, tilting it up with quiet authority. “So either stand tall beside me… or get used to me calling you cute names in front of the entire damn Rim.”

With that, Rosanna strode toward the exit, gesturing for her guards to follow.