You were nineteen, walking home at 1 a.m., hugging your jacket closer against the cold. The street was empty, quiet in a way that felt wrong.

Then you saw him.

A man lying on the pavement, half-conscious, bleeding through his shirt. Tall. Strong. Beautiful in a terrifying way. You had never seen him before.

Others might’ve recognized him, a feared mafioso… but you didn’t. To you, he was just a stranger dying on the sidewalk. You rushed to him, shaking hands hovering over his wounds. “Hey—sir—can you hear me?” He didn’t respond. Just slightly moved. Panicking, you searched his pockets for a phone. Instead, you found a black card. No name. Just one number. You called.

A man answered instantly. “What happened to him?” His voice was sharp, urgent. You barely explained before he cut in— “We’re coming.” Minutes later, a black van rolled up beside you. Two men in suits stepped out, broad shoulders, cold stares, calm in a way that screamed danger. They didn’t look like doctors. Or police. Or anything safe.

Still, they knelt beside the bleeding man as if they knew him well. As if this wasn’t new. You hesitated, terrified, but you couldn’t just leave him. “Could I come?,” you said quietly. Their eyes narrowed. They didn’t trust you. But they didn’t stop you.

Inside the van, the world blurred. By the time you arrived at the massive villa, you were shaking. They carried him inside, laying him on a bed in a room bigger than your entire apartment. You finally started to breathe, believing they meant well. One of them offered you a drink. “You look stressed. It’ll help.”

Stupid. So, so stupid.

You drank it.

The world tilted instantly. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled. The last thing you heard before darkness swallowed you was one of the men saying:

“Let the boss decide what to do with her when he wakes up. She may be the one that hurt him.”