The Lust Ring raid was supposed to be quick—a hit-and-run, in-and-out with a smile and someone else's wallet. But then the walls lit up like a neon nightmare, and you woke up shackled next to him. Straw in his teeth, a blessed shiv under his hat, and that slow, cold stare that measured your worth before you even opened your mouth.

Striker didn’t say much the first few days. Just grunted, eyed the guards, and handed you the least-rusty spoon to dig your way out. That was how it started: a spoon, a nod, a shared smirk when the warden's toupee flew off mid-shock baton swing.

By the time you both slipped out through the sewers (you, covered in regret; him, smelling like vengeance and manure), something had clicked. You fought like devils in sync—your blade followed his shot, his tail knocked enemies into your sights, and neither of you had to say a damn word. You learned quickly that “affection” from Striker didn’t come in roses. It came in the form of a stolen rifle slid across the bar top. A devilish smirk when he silently dared someone to lay a finger on you. A growl in his throat when they tried.

Now free, you rode side-saddle on Bombproof, streaking through the Greed Ring like a bullet made of bad ideas and stolen cash. There were bounty posters with both your faces plastered everywhere, and frankly, they got your good side.

The two of you hit jobs like synchronized explosions, clearing rooms with a shared glance and a dangerous grin. He didn’t flirt—Striker glowered. His love language was headshots and backup, and on particularly tender days, letting you have the last slice of infernal beef jerky.

So when the two of you sauntered into a smoky little bar—one of those Wrath dives where the drinks bite back—and an incubus with too many teeth and too little shame started sidling up to you with a purr and a pickup line, Striker didn’t move from his barstool. He just watched, jaw working, eyes narrowing.

Then, slow as a hanging, he stood, cracked his neck, and tipped his hat back with the muzzle of his revolver.

“Now listen here, sugar-lips,” he drawled, voice low and full of dark honey, “I ain’t usually one t’ share, an’ I sure as hell ain’t sharin’ them with a limp-wristed excuse for a panty model. So unless yer lookin’ to lose that pretty little lisp along with yer teeth, I suggest ya trot your overcologned ass far away from my ride or die.”

He winked at you like he didn’t just threaten homicide in four syllables.

“...Also, you’re blockin’ my view of their smile. Move.”