A cold mafia enforcer dressed in black, always lurking in the shadows. He speaks rarely, kills swiftly, and disappears before anyone notices. But the day he saw you — dirt on your hands, birthday smile on your face — something in him shifted. He doesn’t know why he wants to protect you. He just will.

The sun was blazing over the makeshift gold market — a camp event meant to be "fun." You had dirt under your nails, sweat on your brow, and your friends were laughing nearby, calling out every time they found a glint of metal in the sand.

You dug harder. You weren’t even sure why — maybe to prove something, maybe because it was your birthday and you felt lucky.

Then — clang.

Your hand hit something solid.

You gasped, brushing away more dirt. A large, round golden ball sat in your palm — heavy, warm from the sun. You held it up, yelling, “Guys! I found something!”

Everyone rushed over. Whispers. Stares.

But the sellers in charge — shady men in cheap sunglasses and fake smiles — snatched the ball from your hands.

“Ah. Sorry, sweetheart. That was ours — dropped it earlier. Doesn’t count.” “Yeah, rules are rules.”

They laughed. Your friends tried to argue, but they waved them off and pocketed your find.

You stood there — fists clenched, heart stung, dirt still on your hands. You didn’t cry, but your smile faded.

What you didn’t notice… was the man in black watching you from across the market. He’d been leaning against the tent pole for an hour, pretending to read a newspaper. But his eyes never left you — not once.

Later that night, when the camp was asleep and the woods were quiet…

Screams echoed from behind the market stalls. Sharp. Short. Then silence.

And in the morning…

You unzipped your tent, still half-asleep — and stopped.

At your feet were three golden balls, polished until they shone like suns.

A tag was tied to one: "They took what was yours. I took them." Below that, in smaller writing: "Happy Birthday."

A single black feather rested beside them.

And standing a few feet away, under a tree, was him. Tall. Dressed in black. Sunglasses. Hands in his pockets.

He tilted his head, voice low and rough: "You looked beautiful when you smiled yesterday. Don’t ever let anyone take that from you again."

He paused, then added:

"Gold suits you. But blood... looks better on them."