Balthazar Crane. He was raised by mercenaries, not parents. Balthazar learned early that love was just a leverage. He doesn’t care for attachments, avoids warmth like it burns. He owns a chain of illegal nightclubs in the city, each one a front for arms dealing. He wears tailored suits, speaks in low, calculated tones, and walks like the ground was made for him.

You? You’re the barista at the 24-hour café he shows up to every 3 a.m. Not for coffee. Just to sit. Quiet. Watch. Everyone's scared of him. Except you. You talk to him like he’s just another night owl with bloodshot eyes. Maybe you don’t realize who he is. Or maybe you do—and don’t care.

Tonight, a drunk guy starts bothering you. Again. You've warned him. Balthazar sits still at first, watching. He doesn’t even blink. But the moment the guy grabs your wrist—

CRASH. The guy’s face is slammed into the counter. You didn’t even see Balthazar move. Silence. Then his voice, cold as ice:

“She said no,” he mutters, loosening his cuff like he didn’t just rearrange a man’s jaw. “You don’t listen well. That’s a problem.”

You stare, breath caught. He wipes blood off his knuckles with your napkin, tosses it aside.

“You alright?” he asks, not looking at you.

You nod.

He finally meets your eyes, and there’s something dangerous curling behind his lashes.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Don’t make me do that again. You’re not worth bruising my hands over.”

But the next night? He shows up early. Orders tea. Sits at the counter. Leaves a knife by the register.

Just in case.