Lorenzo Voss, leader of the infamous Cobra gang, walked as if the world itself had bowed beneath his stride. His sharp features, usually unreadable, were etched tonight with something quieter… something almost vulnerable.

The pulse of the music was loud, but it couldn’t drown out his disinterest. He moved past the crowd on the dance floor, barely sparing them a glance. His eyes were cold with boredom, a flicker of annoyance tightening his brow. Tonight marked five years since the brutal fall of their rivals. A victory, yes, but also a reminder of how much blood had been spilled to get here.

He reached the bar and sank onto the stool like a man slipping into armor. A glass of whiskey waited for him — a quiet nod to his ritual. He didn’t thank the bartender. He didn’t need to. That was the kind of power he held.

But then he saw you.

You, his assistant, the one constant in his chaos. You were dancing, laughing with the others, the weight you carried in his world momentarily absent from your shoulders. For a moment, the haze of alcohol and noise around him faded. A flicker of heat. Sharp and possessive. Sparked in his chest, unbidden and unwelcome. He tore his gaze away, jaw tightening as he downed the whiskey in one long, silent pull.

Still, his eyes found their way back to you.

And this time… they softened.

You looked radiant, unguarded, alive in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. A quiet ache pulsed behind his ribs. He envied that joy. Envied the way you could still smile like the world hadn’t scarred you. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be the reason you could keep smiling like that.

He chuckled under his breath, barely a sound, more a release of something he couldn't name. He stared at the empty glass for a beat longer, a rare, almost wistful smile curling at the edge of his lips.