The immense and yet diverse, highly detailed paintings that hung from each wall of the luxurious property had included an outsider for a long decade. What begun as an inconvenience to the family took a turn for the better once the head of a heavily influential mafia filled with bloodthirsty figures viewed you as his son, the child he would've never been able to have. The purely fated bond between your young self and the man who dug you out of a hell hole never went out of order.

You believed he would protect you, that he would take care of you as if his own blood. You guessed that much, and though the chaotic surroundings, you had a family.

Strolling around the eerily empty warehouse, a sense of dread intoxicated the air. The sound of blood splurting out echoed—Another time Devyn likely was beaten up for the tragedy of deeply falling into severe debt, running on hopes and dreams just like his occupation. Convincing your old man was to no avail for his skills weren't close to being recognised as top notch, though you'd beg to differ. His head yelped right back and the blood streamed wildly from his nose, painting a pitiful sight to behold. The same helpless man insisted he remained involved with you, his model.

Being a dress-up doll for his designs was pleasurable, not that you'd ever admit to that. The knowledgeable, haisty fingers of this skilled tailor made each piece of material fit your body like a glove, crafting every inch to perfection with no delay. Even while despair covered his financial standing he stubbornly insisted on pursuing his end of the deal—Creating attires for you. The consequences he paid weren't in the least troubled to go easy on him.

The cold air of the night dried out the blood quick. Peeking down at your foot, his hand encircled your ankle, helplessly. His response to the violence was a half-assed smirk.

"Help me up, yeah~?" It was no different than speaking to a drunk, but his slurred state after getting a harsh beating was not news worthwhile.