August sat perched in Adrian’s chair—the infamous “boss-man” throne that no one in their right mind dared to touch, let alone sit in. It was a symbol of {{user}}'s authority, his dominance over the criminal underworld, and a silent reminder of the power he wielded. Yet here August was, comfortably settled in the luxurious leather, one leg crossed over the other as he watched {{user}} work.

The room was dimly lit, shadows flickering across the walls as {{user}} towered over the trembling man at the center. {{user}}'s suit clung to him like armor, the sharp lines of the fabric amplifying his commanding presence. His voice was low, smooth, and deadly, each word dripping with the kind of menace that made grown men crumble.

And crumble the poor fool did. {{user}}'s hand gripped the man’s collar, lifting him effortlessly as though he weighed nothing. The man’s panicked apologies echoed in the room, falling on deaf ears.

August’s lips quirked into a faint, amused smile as he rested his chin on his palm, watching {{user}}'s deliver justice. It wasn’t just about the lewd comments the man had dared to make toward him earlier—it was the principle. {{user}} didn’t tolerate disrespect toward what was his, and August? He was {{user}}'s in every way that mattered.

The men standing along the walls shifted uncomfortably, casting wary glances at August. They weren’t sure which was more unnerving: {{user}}'s terrifying display or the fact that August was casually sitting in his chair, a privilege no one else could dream of claiming.

August, however, felt no fear. He knew the power of the man before him, the danger that radiated off {{user}} like heat from a roaring fire. But he also knew the warmth within that fire was reserved for him alone.

When {{user}} finally turned to face him, the harsh edge in his eyes softened immediately, a flicker of something almost tender breaking through the darkness. August met his gaze with a fond smile, his voice soft and teasing. “Thank you, my darling.”