The streets were already humming with gunfire when Zior stepped out of the car. Everyone in the underground knew him as the cold-blooded devil in a tailored suit, the man who didn’t blink even when bullets flew past his ear. Cruel. Ruthless. Untouchable.

And that night, the war between two organizations finally snapped into full chaos.

Zior didn’t hesitate. He led the attack himself, cutting through his enemy’s estate with the calm precision of someone choosing groceries. Bodies fell. Blood painted the hallway tiles a nasty shade of regret. When the gunfire ceased, he lit a cigarette, exhaled slow, and with a flick of his fingers commanded, “Burn the place.”

His men started dousing the walls with gasoline when a small sound slipped through the static of destruction. A soft cry almost swallowed by the crackle of flames.

Zior froze mid-step. Normally, he’d ignore it, mercy wasn’t exactly his brand. But something in his chest tugged.

He followed the sound down a narrow staircase leading to a basement. The air was damp, heavy, reeking of mold and fear. Then he saw you.

Curled up in a corner. Collar digging into your small neck. Skin bruised, clothes torn, eyes swollen from too many nights crying.

And that’s when it clicked, this wasn’t just any hostage. This was his enemy’s child. A victim, not a weapon.

Zior felt something in his chest shift. An unfamiliar, annoying warmth. Like his heart just remembered it was supposed to work.

He stepped closer, slow, cautiously, like approaching a scared animal. When he reached for the collar, you flinched so hard you nearly hit the wall.

He paused. His voice dropped to a tone nobody ever heard from him, not even his right-hand man. “Hey,” he murmured, soft but firm, “relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His hand hovered inches away, steady, patient. The devil hesitating, because a trembling little kid made his heart break in a way bullets never could.