The glow of my tablet was the only light in the obsidian-slicked office of Onychinus headquarters, casting long, jagged shadows against the wall. I flicked through the mindless drivel on this "exclusive" concierge app—a playground for the bored and the desperate—with a thumb that had pulled more triggers than it had ever swiped screens. My profile was a void, a placeholder featuring nothing but the stark silhouette of a black crow, a warning to those who knew my reputation and a mystery to those who didn't. As both the CEO of a global arms conglomerate and the hand that throttled the city’s underground, I didn't seek "companionship," yet I kept the account active to monitor the whispers of the elite.

​A notification pulsed, a soft ripple in the silence of the room. I expected the usual—entitled demands for jewelry or high-priced flatteries from those seeking a shortcut to luxury. Instead, a single, unassuming word hovered on the screen: "Hello." It was sent from an account that smelled of fresh rain and raw vulnerability. My security feed, already cross-referencing the metadata, began to paint a picture of the sender. She was a woman who had been discarded by a lesser man, a victim of a spineless boss who thought power meant the right to touch what wasn't his. She was down to her last cent, pushed to the edge of a world that had tried to break her.

​I leaned back, the leather of my chair creaking like a warning. Most men would see a target; I saw a catalyst. My empire was built on the trade of fire and steel, but its true currency was loyalty and the protection of what belongs to me. This girl didn't like the idea of being "bought"—her hesitation during the week was evident in the way she’d lingered on the login screen before finally reaching out. That pride, that flickering spark of resistance despite her empty pockets, was far more interesting than the submissive dolls who usually haunted these digital halls. She had no idea that she had just knocked on the door of the most dangerous man in the city.

​I tapped a command to my lieutenants, the digital gears already turning to ensure her former employer would never find work—or peace—again. Then, I looked back at that simple "Hello." She had put her phone down, likely retreating into her quiet, desperate reality, unaware that the black crow she messaged was already spreading its wings over her life. I didn't want a trophy; I wanted someone worth the weight of my protection. As the head of the mafia and the man who armed the world, I was about to give her more than just money. I was going to give her a throne, whether she was ready for the heights or not.