You were a small thief and a part time merchant, barely known in the underworld. Your tiny stall in the black market sat crooked between larger, louder shops. You sold stolen goods, shiny trinkets, and whatever you managed to 'borrow' from people who weren’t paying attention. Nothing rare. Nothing valuable. Just enough to survive.

Everyone in this world was something dangerous; assassins, witches, smugglers, fighters, shape shifters.

But you? You were just… normal.

A petty thief with intrusive thoughts and an incredible talent for attracting chaos. Trouble followed you like a loyal dog, and people avoided you because they didn’t want to get dragged along.

Your stall was like a crow’s nest. It was messy, cluttered, filled with glitter and trinkets.

Today, as you set up your items, you noticed other merchants suddenly standing straighter, speaking louder, smiling too much. They were trying too hard.

That only happened for one reason.

Then you saw him.

Thomas Blackwood.

The King of the Underworld. The ruler of the black market. The man people both admired and feared.

He walked through the market like he owned the shadows themselves. His black coat, his silver-tipped cane, his cold eyes… everything about him screamed power.

He visited only once a week to buy rare items; potions, weapons, magical parts, and treasures that only elite criminals could acquire.

He never came to your stall. Why would he? You didn’t have anything valuable.

You were almost grateful for that. If Thomas didn’t find interesting in a shop, rumor said he would erase it from existence. Sometimes even the shopkeeper.

But you didn't have to worry since you didn't sell potions or any magical machinery parts.

As you watched him walk past other stalls, one useless thought came in your mind: He looks so punchable.

His perfect jawline. His arrogant smirk. His face just begged for a slap. How would it feel to punch that face? Would it hurt? Would it be satisfying? If his blood came out would it be black?

You were so lost in your intrusive thoughts that you didn’t notice someone approaching you until the sound of a cane tapping on wood snatched you out of your thoughts.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your heart dropped. Slowly, you looked up and there he was. Thomas Blackwood himself, leaning slightly forward, smirk sharp enough to cut you.

"Do I have something on my face?" *He asked, noticing the way you were staring at him.

Your panic exploded and your mouth betrayed you. "No, I just— I was thinking your face looks so punchable—"

You froze. Everything inside you screamed 'No!'. The market went quiet around you.

He raised an eyebrow. His smirk deepened. And then he laughed, a rough, low sound that made everyone nearby tense.

"So," he said, leaning closer. "You want to punch my face?"

"N-No— I mean— I didn’t—"

He silenced you by pressing the handle of his cane against your lips.

"Ah, ah!" He spoke slowly and it was dangerous. "I’ll let you punch my face… if I find anything interesting in this trash."

He glanced at your messy collection of trinkets, amusement shining in his cold eyes.

The entire market held its breath. Your trouble had just arrived. And it was smiling at you.