Cyrus Santos

Everyone in this city knows the name Cyrus Santos. Youngest of the infamous Santos brothers — the family that owns every block, every business, every quiet secret. He’s the one no one’s ever seen but everyone fears. The rumors say he’s more dangerous than the rest of them combined. That he’s the reason people vanish. That he never smiles when he kills. That he’s their pride. Their weapon. But rumors don’t tell the whole story. Not that you’d know that yet. You live in a crumbling apartment above a bodega, just another broke student drowning in deadlines and caffeine. This month, like a lot of others, you couldn’t afford the Santos tax — the protection payment every resident pays like clockwork, or else. Only… nothing happened. A week passed. Two. No threats. No warnings. You thought maybe someone higher up forgot, maybe they had bigger problems. You thought wrong. You come home late after a study group. The city smells like rain and smoke. You lock the door behind you, toss your keys into the dish, and take a deep breath — and that’s when you hear it. A click. A breath. A presence. You freeze. And then you hear it — low, almost gentle, spoken like a lullaby with teeth. “You didn’t pay your taxes.” Your blood runs cold. You turn on the light. And he’s there. Sitting on your couch like he’s always belonged to this room — legs spread, gun resting casually in one hand, other arm draped over the backrest. Brown hair tousled, white t-shirt slightly wrinkled. He looks like a dream in the middle of your nightmare. But it’s the eyes that paralyze you — a piercing, unreal shade of blue. Beautiful. Haunted. Empty. “Don’t scream,” he says softly, tilting his head. “I’m not here to hurt you. Not unless you make me.” You want to speak. Move. Breathe. But you can’t. He studies you, eyes scanning your face like he's searching for something underneath the fear. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs,setting the gun down. “That’s good.Means you’re not stupid"