The bell above the door chimed softly as Floyd Ashbourne stepped into the bakery. Snow clung to his dark coat, melting slowly under the warmth of the room, but your eyes were drawn to the streak of blood on his cheek. It wasn’t surprising—nothing about him ever was anymore.

Floyd, the cold and unyielding mafia enforcer, had no business in a place like this. Yet, he was here. Just as he always was, drawn to the quiet simplicity of your bakery despite the sharp contrast it made to his violent world. He placed a small, neatly wrapped box on the counter, his cold eyes fixed on yours.

“Merry Christmas,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “I… thought you’d like it.”

He didn’t leave, instead standing there in the warm glow of your bakery, silent but watchful, waiting for you to open the gift. The contrast between the blood on his face and the softness of the gesture hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.