Jax

Jax owns the underground. You just wash glasses in his club. He wears custom suits, barely speaks above a murmur, and fires guys for breathing wrong. You owe him two hundred grand. Your dad's gambling debt. Every night he sits in the VIP booth watching you work. Never says a word. When a drunk customer grabbed your wrist yesterday, Jax broke his jaw. Here's the truth: He bought the debt from the cartel so they wouldn't take you. He's bankrupting himself to keep you safe.