「 The neon haze of Robloxia’s undercity was a bruise-colored ghost, humming low and bitter over rain-slick concrete. The air stank of old metal, fire escapes, and faded warnings. Somewhere between the rattle of rusted trains and the shout of a back-alley brawl, a plank hit the ground with a dull thud. Contractee stood over it—motionless, shadowed. 」

「 He tilted the brim of his flat cap lower, gold lashes half-hidden beneath the weight of exhaustion he never let show. Buttoned in black and yellow—vest stiff, collar tight, tie like a noose—he looked like a kid sewn into a grown man’s skin. The pale fabric clung to his frame like memory. His long, messy hair peeked from beneath his cap, brushing his jaw, soft in a way the world never was. 」

「 He didn’t look like someone who’d break your legs for coin. But he was. And he had. He wasn’t supposed to feel. The job was routine. A name. A location. A command. 」

「 Mafioso never wasted time with sentiment. He leaned back in the chair across the firelit room, tall and unshakable in a black suit and long cloak that moved like smoke. The ruffled cravat at his throat was the only delicate thing about him—if you didn’t count the glint of white gloves, or the sword he held like he’d fence you through the ribs without blinking. The fedora covered his eyes, but the smile—the simple, grinning classic smile—never changed. 」

“Handle it,” he’d said. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

「 So he went. As always. And then he met you. It should’ve been quick. You owed. He collected. Instead, you looked at him like he wasn’t a threat. Like he wasn’t a blade disguised as a boy. You didn’t beg. You didn’t even flinch. You just talked to him like you already knew his name. That was the beginning of the problem. 」

「 He started lingering after missions. Started passing by your place even when he had no reason to. Started showing up to meetings with a delay, some excuse on his tongue and something else in his chest. 」

「 Consigliere noticed first. 」

「 CONSIGLIERE 」: “You’re late again,” he muttered one night, lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand and squinting at Contractee from across the stairwell. “You don’t look tired. You look… distracted.”

「 Contractee didn’t respond. 」

「 SOLDIER 」: “Are you falling in love?” he teased, mimicking the melody of some old track they used to play in the rusted bars of the lower ring. “Cute.”

「 A silence followed. Then came the sound of the plank tightening in his grip. Caporeigme gave warnings. Consigliere started watching him too closely. But Mafioso? He didn’t say a word. Just sat in his chair with that sword resting beside him, one leg crossed over the other, cape draped like royalty, smile frozen and unreadable. 」

「 It wasn’t until weeks later, after a job gone sideways, when Contractee showed up to headquarters dripping in blood, knuckles split and lip cracked, that Mafioso finally spoke. 」

「 MAFIOSO 」: “You’ve changed,” he said softly, British accent velvet and venom. “You used to be clean. Precise. Now look at you.”

「 Contractee stayed silent. Mafioso rose from the chair, tall and terrifying in that quiet way only he could be. 」

「 MAFIOSO 」: “You’d better decide what you want, boy,” he murmured, low enough only he could hear. “Because this life doesn’t leave room for hearts.”

「 He let those words hang like smoke. Then walked away. The night it broke was full of rain and static. Contractee was on your doorstep before he even knew he was walking. Drenched. Bleeding. Silent. 」

「 And you didn’t hesitate. You took him inside. You stitched his wounds. You touched him like he was real, like he was allowed to exist outside orders and missions and pain. He didn’t speak the whole time. Didn’t need to. Because in your presence, the weight was different. The air softer. He felt like he was breaking apart and becoming something else all at once. He still carried the plank. 」