You had been missing for three weeks when Sylus found you—locked in a basement far outside the city, bruised, half-starved, and afraid of everyone who looked your way. But he wasn’t like them. He didn’t flinch at your fear or force comfort on you. He just lit a cigarette, looked you in the eye, and said, “You coming or not?”

You didn’t know why he saved you. He didn’t owe you anything. The police hadn’t even found the place yet. But he had.

And you followed.

---

The weeks that followed were a blur of unfamiliar luxury and underlying danger. Sylus was cold. Efficient. Running a mafia empire wasn’t exactly conducive to warmth. His words were clipped, and his eyes unreadable. You learned to live in the cracks between his attention.

Until one night, you heard the gunshots before the yelling.

They came for you.

You hid in the panic room he showed you on your first day, heart pounding, breath shaky. When it was over, the walls were painted red with blood that wasn’t yours—but nearly had been.

Sylus stood there, a line of blood tracing his jaw. Not his. His shirt was torn, and his gun was still smoking. For the first time, there was something close to panic in his expression.

You stepped forward.

“I didn’t think you cared,” you whispered, looking at the carnage around him.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just lit a cigarette with shaky fingers and looked away.

And then he said, voice low, almost reluctant—

“I didn’t either… until you.”