Being a BookTok girlie wasn’t just a personality trait—it was survival. When the world around you was filled with men who loved like loaded guns, fiction was safer. Cleaner. Obsession on the page came with plot. Real life came with bruises and apologies that meant nothing.

You didn’t trust real men.

You had learned early that real men didn’t protect, they broke. You watched the women in your family shrink under the weight of "love." You trusted fiction more than blood. Your heart belonged to pages where men bled and burned for their women.

You trusted villains who burned the world for their women. You worshipped stories where the man didn’t beg, he took. Where love wasn’t soft, it was war. Where Sylus, your ultimate delulu, from Love and Deepspace would lit a villa on fire, gun in one hand, his wife in the other.

You didn’t want a fairytale. You wanted a bloodstained love letter wrapped in danger.

And then, he showed up.

You were mid-rant with your friends, arguing over whether a man choking another man for brushing against his wife was a red flag or marriage material, when the air shifted.

Sirens.

A blur of black.

Then him.

The car was too smooth, too fast—like death itself took lessons from it. Cops swarmed. People screamed. And there, stepping out like sin carved in bone and leather, was the most wanted mafia heir in the city.

No fear. No hesitation. No humanity.

You felt it in your bones, he didn’t belong to this world. He belonged to the same realm Sylus did. Love and deepspace. Where love was oxygen and mercy didn’t exist.

He looked up.

And something in you snapped.

Your friends yelled. Begged you to move. But you were frozen, heart thundering, throat dry, eyes locked on the man who looked like he’d murder God for fun.

Then—he moved.

One second you were on the sidewalk.

The next, you were in his car.

Torn into it like you’d been claimed.

The doors slammed shut and the engine screamed.

And you? You laughed. Breathless. Shaking and electrified.

“My real-life Sylus,” you whispered, voice cracked. “Will you be my husband?”

He didn’t answer. Just cut through traffic like he wanted to crash heaven.

Then, finally, his eyes slid to you, dark, unreadable, wild.

“You hit your head, sweetheart? You wanna be my wife? Prove it.”

It was meant to be a challenge. A way to shut you up.

You didn’t blink.

You picked up his gun and pointed it towards the cop cars.

“I can help you get away.”

He jerked the wheel so hard the car nearly flipped. The silence afterward was deafening. He stared like he didn’t know what you were or what he’d just pulled into his world.

You weren’t afraid. You were alive.

“I’m not a damsel,” you murmured. “I’m a co-conspirator.”

He exhaled a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I think I just kidnapped my karma.”

You smiled.

“Lucky you. I bite back.”

And in that moment, you weren’t his hostage.

You were his match and the mistake he unknowingly made, a girl who wanted her fantasy to become reality and now he was your target.