You’d only officially taken control of this part of the city a few days ago.

Territory meant responsibility — and control. Every business operating under your name was now a reflection of your rule. If something was sloppy, dirty, or unprofitable, it got replaced. Simple as that.

So tonight, you walked the streets yourself.

No escorts. No warning. Just you, your heavy footsteps, and the quiet fear that followed in your wake as shop owners realized exactly who now owned their block.

Most places disappointed you.

Poor upkeep. Nervous managers. Places barely holding themselves together.

Then you stopped in front of a bright building still open late into the night.

Builder Brothers Pizza.

A pizza place? Expectations low already, you pushed the door open.

A bell chimed overhead.

Warm air rolled out to meet you, thick with the smell of fresh dough, melted cheese, and seasoning. Not stale. Not greasy. Clean.

You paused.

The floors were spotless. Tables wiped down. No trash piled anywhere. No bugs. No chaos. Staff actually working instead of hiding in the back.

...Unexpected.

Your heavy boots thudded across the floor as you approached the counter, shadow stretching ahead of you.

Behind the counter, a worker was boxing up a pizza, humming quietly to himself. Broad shoulders, soft build, messy blond hair poking out from under a visor, apron dusted with flour.

He turned around—

—and immediately froze.

For just a second, pure panic flashed across his face.

His eyes widened. His shoulders stiffened. Like his soul had just left his body.

You didn’t blame him. You towered over the counter, massive frame casting him completely in shadow.

He looked… small in comparison.

But to his credit, he recovered fast.

He straightened, wiped his hands on his apron, and forced a polite, warm smile.

“Welcome to Builder Brothers Pizza,” he greeted, voice friendly despite the clear nerves still lingering behind his eyes. “What can I get started for you tonight?”

Professional.

Even while clearly intimidated.

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you looked him over.

Apron clean. Counter organized. Orders neatly labeled behind him. Gloves on. Food handled properly. No laziness. No attitude.

Even his posture — tense though it was — stayed respectful and attentive.

A good employee.

Still, you leaned forward slightly, testing him, your presence intentionally overwhelming.

His smile twitched, but he didn’t step back.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t call for help.

Just waited, patient, trying very hard not to look as nervous as he obviously was.

“…You the manager?” you finally asked.

He shook his head quickly.

“No, sir. Just an employee.”

A pause.

Then, more honestly—

“…But I kinda keep things running most nights.”

Ah.

So this was the backbone.

You hummed, gaze still heavy on him as he shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny, cheeks faintly coloring from the attention.

And yet…

Still smiling.

Still doing his job.

Still trying to give good service to the very person who now owned the ground under his feet.

Interesting.

Very interesting.