The warehouse reeked of blood and stale smoke, the distant roar of flames consuming the city mingling with the sharp cracks of gunfire. Echoing screams painted a grim symphony, a backdrop to your own silent despair.

You tugged at the ropes biting into your wrists, your heart racing as the men around you exchanged crude jokes, their confidence palpable.

Felix, the so-called hero, had vowed to save you, but his promises proved hollow. When the city cried for salvation, he chose its survival over yours. You were collateral, discarded in the name of the greater good.

But Bangchan was no hero. He was a villain.

The doors slammed open with a deafening crack, the hinges shrieking in protest.

Bangchan stood in the threshold, blood dripping down his face in stark, unforgiving rivulets, carving cruel lines across his sharp features. His suit, once pristine, hung in tatters, darkened with the blood of whoever had dared cross his path outside.

The men froze, their laughter dying instantly. Bangchan’s cold eyes found yours, and for a brief moment, relief softened his expression.

“Kill him!” the leader barked, and gunfire erupted.

Bangchan dove to the side, drawing his pistol with a fluid motion. Bullets tore through the air, ripping into flesh and splattering the walls with crimson.

Bangchan moved like a predator, brutal and unrelenting. When his gun clicked empty, he didn’t pause—he grabbed a pipe from the ground, swinging it into the jaw of a man who got too close. The crunch of bone echoed before the body crumpled.

By the time silence returned, bodies littered the floor in pools of blood.

Bangchan approached you, his steps steady despite the blood soaking his side. Kneeling, he cut through your ropes, his fingers slick with crimson as he pulled you into his chest. His embrace was firm, protective, as though shielding you from the world itself.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his gravelly voice softened by a tenderness that seemed foreign to him.