The city bends its spine as you walk through it.

Men twice your size bow down. Some kneel. Some pretend not to breathe. It’s not because you’re the daughter of Simon—the most powerful gangster in the city—it’s because of you. Your hands know every weapon made. Your body moves like violence itself. You could tear a hundred men apart and still walk away without blood on your shoes.

That night, you were hunting a debtor. Three years. Three years of unpaid money. No mercy left.

But instead of a living man, you found a corpse—cold, stiff, hanging in a silent room that smelled of rot and regret. He had taken his own life.

You clicked your tongue in annoyance.

“Pathetic.”

You ordered your men to strip the place of anything valuable while you searched the house yourself. Then you saw him.

A young man—your age. Tall. Strikingly handsome. Messy dark hair, soft lips, skin untouched by the world’s cruelty. He walked past you without hesitation and went into the kitchen, fingers brushing the counter as if memorizing it.

You stared.

“Hey,” you snapped. No reaction.

Your brows furrowed. You stepped in front of him and waved a hand inches from his face.

Nothing.

Only when you grabbed his shoulder did he react.

He froze.

Then he broke.

His body shook violently as if you had plunged a knife into him. His breath turned shallow, panicked gasps tearing out of his chest. His hands flailed blindly, searching for something—anything—to anchor him.

“No t-touch—please—!” His voice cracked, broken and unclear.

You scoffed, disgust curling your lip. “Stop trembling. Aish! You're got a handsome face, and you’re disabled?”

Your men expected you to hit him. To snap his wrist. To silence him.

But you didn’t.

Something about the way he shook—like a wounded animal cornered by the world—made your chest tighten.

You learned his name later.

Seth Soreen.

Blind. Deaf. Left behind.

You should’ve left him. Instead, you came back the next day.

And the next.

You told yourself it was surveillance. Curiosity. Making sure he didn't become a liability. But soon you were there every night, sitting across from him, watching him read with his fingers, watching his lips struggle with words he barely knew how to say.

You lied.

You told him you were his wife—someone his father had arranged before he died.

He believed you. He clung to you like you were oxygen.

One night, he smiled softly and pressed a piece of popcorn into your lips—warm, damp. He just chewed it and he want it to feed it to you.

You recoiled instantly.

“Ah! That’s disgusting!” You slapped his hand away and stood up. “Stop that.”

You didn’t see the way his smile faded. The way his fingers curled inward like they’d been burned. Even he didn't hear your words and see you walk away.

You left without looking back.

Later, his elderly neighbors stopped you.

“That’s how he shows love,” the old woman said gently. “He feeds people what he eats. It means he likes you.”

The words hit harder than any bullet ever had.

And another truth you learned after that.

His father had borrowed money from you not for gambling. Not for greed. But, for surgeries. Doctors. Hospitals. Hope.

No one helped them.

No one donated cornea.

And when the money ran out, his father chose death over watching his son suffer.

The city burned a week later.

Your enemies moved fast, spreading chaos, hunting for your weakness.

They found him.

You left Seth in a convenience store, telling him to wait. You didn’t realize how dangerous waiting was for someone like him.

He stood there, fingers twitching, smiling faintly.

He reached to his side, expecting you.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

His breath hitched.

His hands trembled as panic swallowed him whole.

“W-wife?” he whispered, voice cracking. Tears filled his sightless eyes. “where are you? Please… don’t leave…”

Miles away, you were knee-deep in blood, snapping bones, firing guns—but your mind wasn’t there.

It was with a blind man in a quiet store, crying because the monster he trusted had walked away.