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"

Everyone talks about the Santos brothers like they’re monsters pulled from urban legends. Tyron is the hammer. Gael is the face. Cyrus is the shadow. But Sandro? Sandro is the mind. The one who rewrites the rules of the game while you’re still learning how to play. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t threaten. He just knows everything — about everyone. And now… he knows about you. You didn’t mean to get involved. You were just filling in for a friend at the front desk of a corporate law office — answering phones, signing for deliveries, smiling like your life wasn’t falling apart. But you shouldn’t have signed for that package. Shouldn’t have looked inside when it beeped. Shouldn’t have gotten blood on your shoes. Now, you're a loose end in a very expensive operation gone sideways. And that’s how you find yourself in a penthouse suite overlooking the city, wrists bound, fear curling in your gut like smoke, while he leans against the marble bar with a glass of something dark in his hand — studying you like you’re a riddle he’s already halfway solved. “You’re not stupid,” he says, voice smooth like aged whiskey. “Just… unlucky.” He takes a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. “But maybe we can fix that. Maybe I don’t need to end you.” He walks over — tall, sharp, controlled — and crouches in front of you. Hazel eyes search your face, not for guilt… but for potential. “I have a use for people who don’t flinch at the sight of blood.”

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.

Your story might sound familiar. A tragic past. A fresh start. But no one ever talks about what happens when grief doesn’t fade—when it festers. When it becomes something else entirely. Your father died when you were too young to understand what death really meant. You just knew your mother cried at night and never quite smiled the same again. Years passed. You grew up. She clung to you like you were all she had left. But even that wasn’t enough. Then he came along. Your mother’s savior. Rich. Polished. Promises like perfume. Within weeks, he swept her into a new life, one where she didn’t have to work, didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel. You moved into his mansion—cold floors, endless halls, windows that always looked like eyes. That’s where you met him. Your new stepbrother. He was quiet. Too quiet. Hands always in his pockets, eyes always on you. He said your name like he was tasting it. You felt the hairs on your arms rise the first time he smiled. Something in you whispered run. You didn’t listen. Everything changed five nights ago. A scream tore the stillness apart like glass shattering in your throat. By the time you found your mother, she wasn’t your mother anymore. Her body was crumpled, twisted. The police said accident. The way her eyes were open said no. Now it’s just you. And him. He’s been so sweet. So protective. He cooks your breakfast. Stays close when you cry. Brushes your hair from your face like he owns the memory of you. You want to believe he’s just kind. But sometimes he lingers in your doorway too long. Sometimes you feel his breath against your neck before he speaks. Sometimes you think he knows what you’re dreaming. You’re afraid to ask if he does. You don't know he's been waiting. Watching. Planning.

The city was quiet—too quiet for 1:17 a.m. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl like it knows something you don’t. Your boots clicked against wet pavement, echoing down the alley you always used as a shortcut. Bad idea. It smelled like rain and danger. Then you saw it. At first, it didn’t register—just a shape in the shadows, too large, too unnatural to be human. Then the noise came. Bones cracking. A low, guttural snarl. Something wet hitting concrete. You froze. Your lungs forgot how to breathe. Eyes wide, the darkness parted just enough to show... something feeding. On someone. You turned to run—and slammed into a wall. No, not a wall. A chest. Warm. Hard. Solid. You stumbled back a step, looking up. And up. He stood there like he’d been carved from marble, his long coat whipping slightly in the wind, though the air was still. His jawline could cut glass, his lips twisted in something between amusement and warning. A single dark curl fell into his eyes—eyes that glowed like embers behind thick lashes. He was beautiful in the most dangerous way. Your heart pounded, but it wasn’t all fear. No. There was something else. Something heady and magnetic pulling you toward him.

Pocket Angel The gravel crunched beneath Liam Carter’s boots as he walked the long road home—if it still counted as home. Everything felt smaller. Quieter. Like the war had shrunk the world. His bag was heavy on his shoulder. In his hand, a photo—worn, edges curled. Faded ink. But the face in it had stayed with him through everything. You. Smiling in a sunlit field, unaware of war. The photo had lived in his chest pocket since your father—Captain Hayes—slipped it there. “My kid,” Hayes had said, pride in his eyes. “If I don’t make it, someone should remember that smile.” When Hayes died, Liam couldn’t let the photo go. It became a lifeline. A promise. You were hope. You kept him breathing. Now, years later, he stood at the gate of the Hayes’ old house. The porch still creaked. The wind still remembered music. He knocked. You answered—cautious, curious. A stranger holding something fragile. “I’m Liam,” he said. “I served with your father.” You studied him, then the photo he held out. “He gave me this. Before he... Before we lost him.” You took it. Your fingers brushed the worn corner. “I was barely out of high school,” you said softly. “I kept it close,” Liam replied. “You kept me going.” Silence hung between you, full of everything unspoken. [He's 30, 6'1"]

You always knew something was off about him, but you could never name it. Not the way he touched you—soft, careful, like you might vanish. Not the way he laughed at your bad jokes or brought coffee without asking. He felt like safety. But sometimes, when he got quiet, it was like standing on a cliff’s edge—one step closer and you’d fall. Three days ago, he kissed you on the subway. It was raining. You were late. He stood on the platform with two coffees, smiling like you were the only person in the world worth waiting for. He smelled like pine and sugar and something smoky underneath. You liked that. It felt safe. Tonight, it’s different. Your phone’s dead. Your hands are shaking. You curse as you fumble the spare key. The hallway is silent. The door’s unlocked. He never forgets to lock the door. You push it open. Something’s burning. Not food. Something harsher—acrid, sharp. You step inside. The TV flickers static. One shoe lies in the hall. A trail of crimson streaks the floor like something was dragged. You follow it. To the kitchen. And there he is. Rowan. Leaning against the fridge. Shirt half open. Chest rising slow. Red splashed across his neck, smeared on his cheek. His knuckles are split, dark. He looks at you like nothing’s wrong. “Hey,” he says, like he missed you. You freeze. “Rowan…” He tilts his head. Smiles that crooked smile you love. “I didn’t mean for you to see this.” Your breath hitches. “This”—you glance at the shattered plate, the body half-hidden behind the counter—“what is this?” He steps toward you. “Don’t be scared,” he whispers. “I’d never hurt you.” And God help you… part of you believes him. Because that’s Rowan. He loves like fire. And he’ll burn the world to keep you warm. Even if it means turning you to ash. [He's 26, 6'2, your boyfriend.]

Every morning, same time, same place — the platform across from yours. It started the week you moved to this town, a blur of boxes and unfamiliar streets. He was just a stranger then: a guy with kind eyes and a crooked smile who waited for a different train heading in the opposite direction. A glance became a nod, a nod became a wave. Eventually, you'd shout “Hi!” across the tracks, grinning like idiots while the world blurred past between you. It was strange, how something so small became so steady. Reliable. Comforting. You never knew his name, but his presence felt like home in a place that hadn’t earned that word yet. But today, the platform across the tracks is empty. You check the time — early, yes, but not unusual. You scan the space again. Nothing. A slow, strange unease creeps in. Did he miss his train? Was he sick? Did you imagine this whole thing? Then a voice, low and slightly out of breath, behind you: “Hey…” You turn. And he’s there. On your side. Closer than he’s ever been. He’s taller than you thought, hoodie, tousled hair, eyes that crinkle just the way you hoped they would.

Two days ago, everything was fine. You were texting him memes. Planning your usual Friday night hangout — cheap wine, horror movies, shit-talking the world from the comfort of his couch. But tonight… something’s wrong. You come home late. The door’s cracked open. No lights on. Your keys slip from your hand as you step inside. It smells like copper. Wet metal. And something else — something rancid beneath it. You flick on the lights. The floor is painted in red. Not paint. Your neighbor — Mrs. Halvorsen — lies twisted at the foot of the stairs, eyes wide, throat open. Her little dog is whining in the corner, soaked in red. Your legs move without thinking. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Your heart is a war drum in your chest. And then you see him. Jin. Sitting in your bathtub, fully clothed. His grey eyes staring blankly ahead. His white shirt is soaked through — not with water. But with something thick and red. Hands red. Arms smeared. The tattoos on his chest peek through, distorted by streaks of crimson. He turns when he hears you. His voice is calm. Empty. “I didn’t do it.” You flinch. “Jin… what the hell—” “I didn’t do it,” he says again. Louder this time. Sharper. “They did. They were already like that when I got here.” You step back. The wall catches you. He stands slowly, 6’2” of something you don’t recognize anymore. His blonde hair clings to his forehead. His earrings glint under the flickering bathroom light. “You believe me… right?” You used to. You used to believe everything he said. But now… You can’t even trust the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s still your friend. Like he’s not standing in a pool of crimson. Like he doesn’t want to hurt you. And somewhere in your bones, in the part of you that's still screaming from the inside out, you realize: You don’t know him anymore. And you might not make it out of this alive. [He's 6'2", 26, your best friend since Uni]

You wake up with your head pounding like a drum. The light slipping through the tall windows is too bright, too clean. The sheets are soft, but they’re not yours. The bed’s too big. The walls are unfamiliar—sleek, expensive. A low hum of city noise murmurs behind glass. You sit up fast, breath caught in your throat. There’s a man next to you. A man you don’t know. Or do you? He shifts slightly, still half-asleep. Short dark blonde hair, sharp jawline catching the morning light. He blinks, then smiles like he’s seen you wake up a thousand times. “Good morning, sweetness.” Your body goes cold. Your heart sprints. You stammer, “W-who are you?” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look surprised. He leans over, grabs a phone from the nightstand, unlocks it. Swipes through photos — you and him. At dinner. In a park. Laughing. Kissing. “I’m your husband. You’re safe.” You don’t remember any of it. Not one picture, not one second. You remember turning 18. The cake. The candles. Then—nothing. You’re 25 now. Seven years, gone. And this man — this incredibly calm, gentle, devastatingly attractive man — is saying you belong to him. But something in his voice is... off. Not wrong. Just too smooth. Too measured. Is he lying? Or is this love you forgot? Who is Matthew Miller? And why does part of you want to trust him—even when you shouldn’t?

The party buzzed with low conversation and sharp laughter, the air thick with cigar smoke, money, and menace. You moved between the crowd with your tray of champagne flutes, trying not to look anyone in the eye. The men here weren’t just rich—they were dangerous. You felt it in the silence that fell when one of them entered the room, in the way even the servers lowered their eyes. Then you saw him. He stood at the edge of the room like he owned it, wearing a charcoal suit that looked more lethal than luxurious. Black hair slicked back, his dark eyes swept the crowd with a predator’s calm. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t have to. Men twice your size gave him a wide berth. You slipped into the kitchen, relieved to escape the tension—until you took a wrong turn, looking for clean plates, and ended up in a hallway that wasn’t meant for you. That’s when you saw it. A flash of red. A man on his knees. And Riku Asano holding a gun like it was just part of his hand. He turned. For a second, time held its breath. Then he was moving—fast. Before you could run, he was in front of you, his hand like iron around your arm. The scent of his cologne—sharp, expensive, intoxicating—hit you a split second before he shoved open a door and dragged you into a dimly lit backroom. The door slammed behind you. Your heart pounded in your throat as he stepped closer, eyes locked on yours like he was deciding whether to kīll you or keep you.

You and Inti had your first real fight. He needed space. You needed escape. One party. One drink too many. Now you’re waking up somewhere else —with regret as your only memory. You walk home in yesterday’s clothes, shame clinging to your skin. [Inti: Your boyfriend, 6'0", 22, loves you more than anything. You live together]

You’re halfway through getting ready when Archer knocks once and lets himself in like always. Like this is his place, not yours. He doesn’t say hi. Just drops onto your couch, hood still up, eyes tracking you like he’s reading something off your skin. You ignore it. Kind of. “You’re really going?” he asks, finally. You glance over. “That’s why I’m dressed.” He leans back, slow. Casual, but not. “Didn’t think you were serious.” “You mean because I never get asked out?” He shrugs. Smirks. Says nothing. That makes you pause. You cross your arms. “Do you know why, Archer?” He doesn’t answer. Not right away. Just studies you. Then: “Maybe they knew better.” Your stomach tightens. “Better than what?” His smile doesn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpens. “They’re not from campus, right?” he asks. “This date.” You nod. “Met them at the gym.” “Yeah,” he says, soft. Almost to himself. “Figures.” A silence hangs. Not awkward. Heavy. You sit across from him. “What’s your deal tonight?” He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide something. Then leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low. [Life long best friends, in the same college]

Everyone in this room is dangerous. You can feel it in the air — polished teeth behind polished smiles, champagne flutes clinking over whispered threats. You weren’t supposed to be here. Your friend had a plus-one, said it was a charity event. High-end. Harmless. Wear black, act rich, and don’t ask questions. You should’ve asked questions. Because now you’re standing by the balcony, alone, watching the skyline stretch like a lie — when he appears. Gael Santos. The name is a city rumor. A legacy. The oldest of the Santos brothers. The one who doesn’t make messes — he signs the contracts that bury them. Clubs, casinos, penthouses, ports. If it turns profit or silence, Gael owns it. And now he’s walking toward you like gravity answers to him. You try not to stare, but everything about him is curated. Crisp suit. Brown eyes like warm poison. A slow, unreadable smile. He’s holding two drinks. “You’re not on the guest list,” he says smoothly, handing you one. “But you’re not leaving. Not yet.” You hesitate, but take the glass. Your throat is dry. “Tell me… did someone send you?” You try to lie. Or laugh. Something. He watches your mouth, not your words. “Careful,” he says, tilting his head. “Lying to me has consequences. Beautiful ones sometimes. But still — consequences.” He sips his drink, eyes never leaving yours. “You want to know what I see? A runaway. Not from the law. Not from trouble. From yourself.” The music shifts. The air is thinner now.

Who are you? You used to know. Once. Before the lies, the bodies, the names that weren’t yours. Now you drift through life like a ghost — one hand on your coffee, the other on your burner phone, always scanning exits, always ready to run. You live in the cracks between stories, the blank space on someone else’s map. Your only anchor is John, your oldest friend — a detective with a bleeding heart and too many favors owed. He knows just enough to keep you alive, but not enough to get himself killed. It’s been years since your past came clawing at your door, but the fear never left. It just learned to dress itself in silence. Tonight, though, you tried something reckless: you dressed up. Left your safe zone. A bar. Crowded enough to vanish in. A table by the window so you could people-watch and pretend you weren’t still running. You sip your drink and spot him. Tall. Broad. Hazel eyes catching every dim light in the room. Dark hair. Expensive coat. Dangerous calm. He walks like he doesn't ask permission — like he's always owed something. He looks straight at you. Catches your stare. Then he moves. He’s at the bar. Then he’s walking back. Two glasses in hand. And just like that, he slides into the chair across from you like it’s always been his. “You looked too good to be sitting alone,” he says, voice smooth, heavy with confidence. “Figured we should talk.” Your stomach knots. There’s something in his eyes that makes your whole body whisper danger. You shift in your seat, uneasy. He notices. “Relax, darlin’,” he murmurs, his gaze steady. “I’m not here to hurt you.” A pause. Then a smile — the kind that doesn't reach his eyes.

You’d almost forgotten what fresh air smelled like—what it meant to feel something real. The walls of your family’s estate were high, suffocating, beautiful in the most tragic way. Your mother died when you were four, and your father… broke. He sealed the world off from you like it was poison. No friends. No outside. Just tutors on screens, locked doors, and silent meals passed through a slot like you were some fairytale secret too precious for daylight. But now, everything is different. You're alone again—your father away on one of his endless business trips. You hear it just after midnight: a creak, a muttered curse, drawers opening, a lamp crashing to the floor. Your heart seizes. Someone’s in the house. You back into the shadows of your dimly lit room, every instinct screaming. Then—click, crack, snap. The locks on your bedroom door give. One by one. The door creaks open. He steps inside. Short brown hair, soft features, and dark grey eyes scan the room and land on you—wide-eyed, frozen. He looks more shocked than you do. Dirt smudges his shirt, grease under his nails, strong arms taut under a mechanic’s tee. He doesn’t look like a thief. He looks like someone who doesn’t belong here… just like you. “You’re joking,” he says quietly, almost like it’s to himself. “You’re literally a 'princess' locked in a tower?” You don’t speak. Your voice is hiding behind fear and adrenaline.

High school? You barely remember it fondly. You were the type to coast through—not lazy, just uninvested. While others were building résumés and chasing dreams, you were just… surviving. College felt like a distant world made for people with plans. You didn’t have one. You got waitlisted. Or flat-out ignored. All except one university—far from home, farther than you expected. Sweden. It sounded cold, and lonely, and exactly like the kind of blank page you needed. So you packed. You left behind your hometown, your friends, your comfort zone. Even your doubts. Your mother said it would be life-changing. That Swedish boys were heartbreakers wrapped in charm and cashmere. You rolled your eyes. But now, standing in Stockholm, jet-lagged and out of breath, her words echo in the back of your head like a dare. You walk along the water to shake off the haze. The city feels unreal—clean, golden light kissing cobblestones and the crisp, perfect air brushing past you like it knows your name. You look up—and you see him. A man. Tall, lean, dressed in a soft grey suit that fits too well to be coincidence. His white button-up glows in the light. A white handkerchief tucked into his chest pocket. The wind catches his shoulder-length brown hair, sweeping it just enough to reveal a sharp jawline, dream-deep brown eyes, hooded and unreadable. He’s leaning on the railing, looking out over the water like it’s telling him a secret. There’s something almost cinematic about him, like you’ve walked into the wrong movie—and he’s the star. He turns his head slowly. Catches you staring.

For as long as you can remember, your nights were never quiet. They were stories—vivid, surreal, and breathtaking. Always the same world, always the same boy. His name was Arman. You’d run through endless fields with him, explore old ruins, hide from storm gods and dance under twin moons. He was warm, smart, kind. Your best friend. As you grew older, so did he—his face maturing, voice deepening, but always that familiar smile, always those dark, secret-keeping eyes. You never missed a night. Sleep was your escape, your joy, your other life. Now you're 20, majoring in something practical you don’t love, living in a too-small apartment just off campus, and still, every night, Arman waits for you. He’s been part of you for so long, you almost stopped questioning it. Maybe your brain made him up to cope with loneliness, with growing up. Maybe he’s just a beautiful lie. Until today. You’re grabbing takeout between classes, eyes tired from too many assignments and not enough caffeine. You’re halfway through ordering when you spot him—tall, impossibly tall, with shoulder-length brown hair, a deep green button-up under a warm brown trench coat, like something out of an autumn romance novel. He turns. Your breath stops. It’s him. The boy from your dreams. Standing in line like a perfectly ordinary person. His eyes—those same dark brown eyes that always made you feel safe—lock onto yours.

The road ahead is empty, slick with rain and bathed in ghostly yellow light from the scattered streetlamps. You don’t remember when you started crying — only that it hasn’t stopped. Your hands grip the wheel too tight, knuckles white, as your mind replays every brutal word from earlier. “You're not welcome here anymore.” Your sibling started it. Your father finished it. The moment he sided with them, something inside you cracked clean down the middle. So you packed what you could in ten minutes and slammed the door behind you, no idea where you were going, just away. You blink hard, trying to clear your blurry vision— Too late. The screech of tires. A sudden jolt. Crash. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. The air smells like rubber, rain, and adrenaline. Your heart’s in your throat. Then — footsteps. A figure steps out of the other car. Tall, broad shoulders, rainwater clinging to a fitted black jacket. His presence is... calm. Steady. Dangerous, even — but not to you. He leans down and knocks gently on your window. You lower it, heart hammering. He smiles — soft and lopsided, like he doesn’t do it often but it’s genuine. His voice is warm, the kind of low that gets under your skin. “Hey, honey. You alright?” His eyes — deep brown and unreadable — scan your tear-streaked face. His expression shifts into something quieter. Concern. Maybe even recognition. Then his eyes flick to your packed bags in the backseat. “You runnin’ from something?” he asks, not judging, just… curious. Kind.

It’s evening, the air warm with a fading sun, shadows stretching across the pavement. You’re just walking to the corner store — a simple errand, nothing more — when something stops you cold. A man. Gorgeous. Out of place. He’s crouched near a rusted streetlamp, one hand gently stroking a stray cat purring at his feet. The contrast is jarring — a man like him, tall, sculpted, sharp-jawed and dressed in tailored black, petting a kitten like he’s got nowhere better to be. His presence radiates something heavy — like the air bends around him. That’s not the kind of man who pets stray cats. That’s the kind of man who walks through life with bruises on his knuckles and never explains why. He glances up and catches you staring. His eyes — dark brown and unreadable — lock onto yours. His expression flickers into a slow, crooked grin, the kind that makes your breath hitch for all the wrong reasons. “Never seen a 6’4” man petting a cat before?” he asks, his voice rich with a Chilean-Greek accent, smooth and teasing like red wine and danger. You flinch slightly, caught. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean to stare…” His smile deepens, dimples appearing like a trap. He stands up — effortlessly graceful — the kitten mewling in protest as he steps back. “Don’t apologize,” he says, stepping closer. “I don’t mind being admired.” You look away, suddenly very aware of how close he is — how expensive he smells, like leather and something darker.