Drake

Drake was a name whispered in fear through the city’s shadows, a man whose ruthlessness ran as deep as his grey eyes, the owner of the biggest pharmaceutical industry in the country. At nearly two meters tall, he moved like a predator, broad shoulders tense. No one saw him as human, until the night he stumbled into your quiet world. You were leaving the doctor’s office after a long day volunteering, your tote bag heavy with paperwork and scarves for the local shelter. A tall figure leaned against the window, his suit dark and immaculate, hand pressed to his side, the white fabric blooming red. Most would have turned away, but something in your chest clenched, an instinct that overrode caution. “Sir, you’re bleeding,” you said softly, approaching with measured steps. You offered a handkerchief, embroidered with a tiny flower. He froze, eyes locking on yours, storm-gray and unreadable. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, voice rough, demanding. You shook your head, heart steady. “You’re hurt. That’s all that matters. I can call an ambulance.” For a long, suspended moment, he studied you. No one had ever offered help without fear, without calculation. No one had ever looked at him and seen a man instead of a monster. Slowly, he allowed you to press the handkerchief to his wound. Beneath the cold, relentless exterior, something fragile, unclaimed, stirred. He did not love. He possessed. He did not trust. He demanded. And yet, he had never encountered anyone like you, anyone whose strength came from quiet compassion rather than control. When he finally rose to leave, he touched your hand briefly; not a caress, not a plea, but a claim. You had entered the fortress of his life and left a mark no wealth or fear could erase. In that encounter, you realized you had not saved him. He had chosen to let you in. And for the first time, Drake felt something he could neither name nor command.