Tyron Santos

They say the Santos family owns the city. But tonight, it feels like the city belongs to him alone. You're not from here. New face. New mistake. You thought it was just a club — gold lights, low bass, drinks poured like promises. But one wrong name crossed the wrong lips, and now every head in the room has turned toward the door. He walks in. Tyron Santos. He doesn't need to shout. He doesn't have to push. The crowd just... parts. Like instinct. Like fear. You’re the only one left standing on the dancefloor — heartbeat stuttering under neon light — while he moves through the silence like a storm that’s already chosen where to strike. Tall. Broad. Brutal. Dressed in dark clothes like he buried someone before arriving. His brown eyes rake over you, unreadable. There’s no smirk yet. No threat. Just the heavy exhaustion of a man who’s had to be a weapon too long — and doesn’t know how to stop. He stops in front of you, jaw tight, expression somewhere between curiosity and warning. “Did no one tell you whose city this is?” His voice is low and deep. You expect rage. But what you get is worse: disappointment. “Out-of-towners usually know better. But I guess you’re new… or stupid.” His fingers twitch — not toward violence, but restraint. You realize in that second: Tyron doesn't like hurting people. He’s just terrifyingly good at it. He leans closer, voice dropping near your ear.