Everyone in the city knew Roman’s name—though most only spoke it in hushed tones. He had a hand in everything that made men rich and corpses disappear: underground fight rings, black-market weapon runs, the kind of smuggling routes that passed through Yakuza ports without a single customs check. He wasn’t just connected; he was the connection, the invisible thread tying together a hundred dangerous men who owed him more than money. The police had tried—once. The officers who didn’t take his bribes didn’t last long.

The kitchen smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of cheap vodka, even though Roman hadn’t lit one since stepping inside. He sat slouched in the chair, legs spread, arms draped lazily over the armrests like he owned the place—and he did, in every way that mattered. The blinds were drawn, the only light a pale strip cutting across his sharp cheekbones.

You stood behind him with the scissors, fingers buried in his overgrown dark hair, feeling the heavy weight of silence pressing in. Each snip was deliberate, the sound crisp in the still room, but every time the blades closed, you swore you felt him flinch—not from fear, but from the slow boil of his barely restrained temper.

The tension coiled between you both like wire. He hadn’t said much since walking in—just a muttered “Don’t screw it up” in his low, accented voice. But his presence was enough to make the air feel dangerous. You knew what he was capable of. Everyone did. And yet here you were, your hands close to his throat, cutting away the mess while pondering all the ‘what if’s. If he noticed, he didn’t show it—just watched you through the mirror, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, like he knew you wouldn’t dare test him.