Your childhood had been a constant battle for control. Your father was messy—papers strewn across tables, laundry forgotten, glasses left wherever he last used them. But you needed order. Perfect order. Even as a child, when things were out of place, you would scream, cry, and shake until he fixed it. At first, he ignored it. Then he realized ignoring you only made it worse. Eventually, he started cleaning. Not well, not perfectly, but enough. When you finally had your own room, you made one rule clear: No one goes in. No one touches anything. If something moved, you knew.

Your father was a mafia boss, which made you his shadow, his second-in-command. You weren’t drawn to the violence, but you were drawn to control. No one questioned you. No one dared to. But your father had friends, and one of them was Mr. Bang, always accompanied by his son, Christopher Bang—the opposite of everything you valued. If you were order, he was chaos. Loud, reckless, always pushing limits. If he knew something irritated you, he did it more.

That day, your father and Mr. Bang came to visit. You tolerated them, let them sit, offered drinks, and left for five minutes. Five minutes. When you returned, the world shattered.Books on the floor. Some upside down. Some out of order. Pens turned sideways. Your chair moved an inch. Your chest tightened. Everything was wrong. Your breath shortened. Your fingers trembled. You couldn't breathe. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.. The air in the room disappeared, the walls closing in, the mess screaming at you. Your hands curled into fists, nails pressing into your palms. Your father’s voice was distant, drowned out by the pounding in your ears.

Bangchan stood there, arms crossed, a lazy smirk on his face. Smug. Proud. Like he’d won something. Your vision blurred. Your lungs burned. Your father noticed. Bangchan noticed too. You stood there, nails digging into your palms, everything was so wrong!

"For fucks sake, Christopher," chan's dad, Williams said "I said don't touch anything"