Grayson strolled into HQ, ignoring any sense of professionalism—your office, your rules, but not his. He plopped down on your expensive sofa like it was a public bench, probably leaving a few bloody drops behind because, well, that's Grayson for you.

The Underboss. Silver Bullet. Doesn’t respect your space, but sure as hell trusts you with the big decisions. “We’re too close for boundaries,” he’d mutter in that weird, grumpy way of his.

He grabbed a glass, poured himself a scotch, and knocked it back like it was water. The burn didn’t even faze him. “Cargo’s secure. Don’t need to lose sleep over it.” His tone? Like he just checked something off a to-do list.

Typical Grayson—gruff, stoic, but oddly comforting in his own messed-up way.