*Un soir, alors que tu rentres chez toi, tu es témoin d'un accident de voiture. En voulant porter secours à la conductrice, tu découvres une femme élégante, blessée mais étonnamment calme. Sans le savoir, tu viens de tomber sur la patronne de la mafia, freya*

*You have just entered his office, and all you can see is Nicholas playing with some pen on your desk beside his. He looks up, his gaze meets yours.* “Looks who’s finally here.” *he stands up and slowly walks towards you, his gazing locking into you* “Nice heels, by the way.” *He glances down at your heels and click his tongue, before he heads back to his desk.*

"You’re late, sweetheart." He leans against the doorframe, unlit cigarette between his fingers, eyes like gunmetal — cold, heavy, and fucking dangerous. "Four years," he mutters, stepping closer, "and you still know how to walk into a room like you own my goddamn lungs." "Don’t say a word." He doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Not yet. His voice is low, lethal, soft like velvet wrapped around a blade. "You’re gonna sit your pretty little ass down, and you’re gonna listen. Because I’ve spent too many fucking nights replaying the sound of your goodbye, and now? Now I finally get to rewrite it." "You remember what I promised him, don’t you?" He smiles, sharp. "That I’d protect you. That I’d keep my filthy hands off." He steps into your space — too close, always too close. "Oops." "Now tell me, Adeline..." He reaches out, fingertips grazing your jaw with more danger than a loaded gun. "Did you come back for redemption... or to finish breaking what’s left of me?"

}'s safety. His eyes clearly said "I've got you. No matter what." Joseph: *Eyes narrowed, his hand still in mid-air.* "Quinn," he growled, voice shaking with growing fury, "you know better than to—" Quinn: *Cuts him off with a firm but respectful tone.* "Sir, I understand protocol. But the situation has gone too far."

*She ran. Again. The scent of her fear—jasmine and cold sweat—still hung in the garage where they’d taken her, a pathetic, amateur grab for leverage against me. It took me three hours and seventeen minutes to find the warehouse. Three hours where I pictured every possible violation, every shadow of pain that could touch her, and by the time my men blew the locks, the rage in me wasn't a fire; it was a focused, atomic silence. I didn't just ki-ll the five men inside. I made an example. I painted the concrete with reasons why you never, ever touch what's mine. The last one was still gurgling when I saw her in the corner, tied to a pipe, her eyes wide saucers of terror in the strobe-light chaos. Not of them. Of me. She’d seen it. Seen the animal I keep chained for her sake. And still, the second the rope fell from her wrists, she scrambled past me, bare feet slapping on the blood-slick floor, heading for the shattered door. For the freedom that doesn't exist for her, not in any world I breathe in. My hand snapped out, catching her waist before she made it two steps. She gasped, a broken sound, as I hauled her back against my chest, her struggles like a bird beating against a cage of solid oak.* “Enough,” *I growled into her hair, the word vibrating through both of us. I didn’t let her feet touch the ground again. I carried her out, past the ruin I’d made, straight to the black car, and then into the elevator of my building, her silent tears soaking into my shirt. She was shaking. So was I—with the aftershock of a violence that had only barely begun to be sated. The penthouse doors closed with a sound like a tomb sealing. I didn't stop walking until we were in my bedroom, the city a silent, sprawling witness below. I didn't set her down gently. I threw her onto the vast bed, the dark silk swallowing her slight frame. She stared up at me, chest heaving, hair a wild corona around her pale face. She was so soft. So breakable. Everything I wasn't. And she’d run straight into a world that wanted to devour that softness whole. My hands went to my own shirt, fingers slick with a stranger’s blood fumbling with the buttons. I ripped it open, letting the ruined fabric fall. Her eyes dropped to the scars and fresh cuts mapping my chest and arms—the ledgers of my life. A life she was forever trying to flee.* “Look at me,” *I commanded, my voice gravel. She did, defiance flickering behind the fear.* “You run from the monster,” *I said, stepping closer, the edge of the bed hitting my knees.* “But you never stop to ask why the monster is always following you.” *I crawled onto the bed, caging her beneath me, my arms bracketing her head. The scent of jasmine and blood was everywhere.* “I didn’t kill those men because they took you,” *I whispered, my lips a breath from hers.* “I killed them because when they took you, I remembered what I am without you. And it is so much worse than anything you see in me now.” *A tear escaped the corner of her eye. I caught it with my thumb, smearing a tiny streak of red across her cheekbone. Her breath hitched.* “You’re a plague,” *she whispered, her voice raw.* “Yes,” *I agreed, lowering my weight onto her, feeling her body yield into the silk.* “And you are the only cure.” *My mouth found hers, not in a gentle kiss, but in a claiming—a desperate, angry fusion of relief and terror. It tasted like salt and copper and her. She stiffened for a heartbeat, then a broken sound escaped her throat, and her hands came up, not to push me away, but to clutch at my shoulders, her fingers digging into muscle as if she were drowning. The fight bled out of her, replaced by a desperate, answering hunger. I kissed her until we were both breathless, until the world outside the windows ceased to exist. My hands learned her, not with the gentleness she deserved, but with the relentless possession of a man starved. I stripped the ruined clothes from her body, my touches leaving faint marks on her skin—new maps to cover the old fears. She cried out when I entered her, a sharp, perfect sound of pain and surrender, her nails scoring down my back. I moved inside her with a driven, punishing rhythm, each thrust a silent vow, a furious prayer. Mine. Safe. Never again. Her legs locked around my hips, pulling me deeper, her softness sheathing my hardness, her quiet moans drowning out the echo of gunfire. It wasn't lovemaking. It was a reconsecration. A brutal reassertion of a truth she kept trying to outrun: her world began and ended in my arms, in this room, in this bed where the monster and the man were the same creature, utterly, irrevocably hers. When she shattered around me, her back arching off the bed, her cry muffled against my throat, I followed her over the edge, pouring every dark, unworthy piece of my soul into her. I collapsed beside her, pulling her shaking body into the curve of my own, her back to my chest. The room was silent except for our ragged breathing. I pressed my lips to the damp skin of her shoulder.* “Run tomorrow if you need to,” *I murmured into the darkness, my arms tightening around her.* “I’ll burn every city block between us. I’ll find you. And I will always bring you home.” *She didn't answer. She just twisted in my arms, buried her face in my chest, and finally, finally, stopped running.*

The couch has become your refuge—not perfect, but familiar. Cushions worn soft in the exact spots your body presses, faint indentations that almost feel like small acceptance. Your bedroom feels impossible tonight; mirrors catch every angle of yourself, clothing rubs wrong, even the blankets mock how you don’t fit. On the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, your body can be a little quieter, even if only a fraction. You curl tighter, knees to chest, arms clutching the fabric like armor against anxiety and dysphoria that refuses to fade. Every small sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft buzz of streetlights outside—anchors you, yet your body screams under the weight of awareness, edges too sharp, curves too wrong. Even hair sticks into your eyes despite repeated pushes. Every crease of clothing, every shadow along the walls, feels like it’s drawing attention to all the ways you don’t belong in your own skin. Footsteps come from the hall. Heavy. Deliberate. Controlled. Mikhail Volkov enters like a shadow with substance. The apartment seems to bend around him without a word—leather soles brushing carpet, the soft creak of his coat, sleeves rolled to show fur brushing his wrists. His black hat sits low, thick white fur framing the sides of his jaw, ear flaps neat. On the front, a hammer-and-sickle glows bright red—decades-old stitching, a symbol of his childhood in the USSR, of survival, discipline, ideology. He carries the past in his posture, his movements, the quiet authority of a man forged in an era defined by control, struggle, and loyalty. Even before he speaks, you feel him. Presence like gravity, deliberate and heavy. His eyes find you instantly, cataloging every tremor, every tension in your posture. Not indulgent, not soft. Observant. Commanding. Calculating. A man who grew up in a world where fear and authority were survival, who became a mafia boss to control chaos, now choosing care for you. “You’re awake,” he says, voice low and raspy, roughened by years of commanding, surviving, enforcing. Gruff, but careful. “Couch again, huh?” You shrink, curling further into the blanket. Words are too heavy tonight. He sees it: tired, restless, different. He doesn’t question. Notes it quietly, narrowing his eyes slightly, posture shifting ever so subtly. He steps fully in, and the weight of him makes the room smaller, though not suffocating. The chair creaks as he sits across from you, coat on, fur brushing lightly, hammer-and-sickle vivid in dim light. Authority radiates from him—power that could make anyone obey without a word—but here, it is softened, restrained, protective. “You can stay like that,” he murmurs, low, raspy, gruff. “Curl up. Doesn’t matter.” Chest tight, dysphoria humming, you allow it. Awareness of every edge, every curve presses in, yet he sees it without flinching, without demanding explanations. Presence alone anchors. Gruff, dangerous, disciplined, protective. “The night’s heavy,” he mutters to himself, then sharper: “Mind makes it worse. Don’t fight it. Not tonight.” Leaning back, coat brushing the chair, fur edges shifting, hammer-and-sickle glinting red again, he radiates discipline and survival. Mafia instincts underlie every movement—control, precision, readiness—but tempered here, for you. You press the blanket closer, hyper-aware of your form. Shoulders tight, knees curled, heart thrumming. He notices. Always notices. Doesn’t hover, doesn’t demand, doesn’t lecture. His gaze alone is enough to carry weight you cannot. “Drink,” he says finally. Tea warms your trembling fingers. His eyes track, calculating, instinct tuned to protect. “You don’t have to talk. Tired. Restless. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Silence stretches. TV hums. Streetlights flicker. Apartment smells faintly of tea, leather, smoke drifting from his coat. The couch cradles your anxious form. “You’re allowed to exist however you need,” he continues, raspy, low, gruff. “Sleep or no sleep. Stretch, curl up. Doesn’t have to look right for anyone.” Hammer-and-sickle catches dim light. Childhood. USSR. Discipline. Survival. Mafia control. Here, softened, protective, human. “I’m here,” he says, voice steady, unyielding, raspy, full of quiet strength. Chest tight, blanket gripped, dysphoria humming—yet his presence anchors something small, something steady. Not erased. Not fixed. Held. Outside, sirens wail. Inside, the apartment hums. Tea warms your hands. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t lean, doesn’t ask—but waits, watches, protects. A man who commands blocks in Moscow, carries fear in others, now tempers a quiet corner of your chaos. Then—a soft knock at the front door. Quick. Precise. Expectant. Mikhail’s eyes flick. Posture tightens. Fingers curl lightly against the chair arm. Hammer-and-sickle glints red in dim light. Mafia instinct flares, attentive, ready. You clutch the blanket tighter. Chest tight. Dysphoria hums, awareness sharp—but even now, even with the unknown pressing outside, you feel… contained. Safe. The night is far from over.

--- Scenario — Late Night, Cold Air The apartment is already dark when she comes in. Keys hit the counter too hard. Her boots stay on. She doesn’t look at you. All day — nothing. No messages. No voice. No explanation. Just that familiar, suffocating silence. You snap before she can even speak. “Wow. Finally decided to come home?” Your voice is sharp. Tired. Angry. “You’re fucking disgusting, you know that? Ignoring me all day just because I didn’t want to f~ck you.” She freezes. Slowly, she turns. Her face is unreadable — that flat, dead calm that always means trouble. “Watch your mouth,” she says low. You laugh, bitter and loud. “Oh? Or what? You gonna ignore me harder?” Her jaw tightens. “You think this is funny?” “You punish me like a child because I said no,” you shoot back. “That’s pathetic.” That does it. She steps closer. Not fast. Not explosive. Controlled. “You don’t know shit,” she snaps. “You always twist things.” “Yeah? Like you twist everything into control?” you yell back. “Cold shoulder, insults, acting like I owe you my body?” Her voice rises now, rough and cutting. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t put words in my mouth.” You mock her tone. “Poor gangster. Didn’t get what she wanted.” Her hand curls. She lifts her fist halfway — not swinging, not touching — just enough to make the threat clear. “Don’t,” she warns quietly. “Don’t push me like that.” You look at her fist. Then at her face. And you laugh. “Go on,” you sneer. “Hit me. That’d make you feel big, right?” Her fist trembles. For a split second, something ugly flashes in her eyes — rage, fear, shame all tangled together. Then she drops her hand like it burned her. “f~ck you,” she mutters, turning away hard enough to knock a chair over. “You don’t know when to stop.” She grabs a glass, slams it on the counter, pours water with shaking hands. The room is loud with silence. She doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t look at you.

*You walk into the Pagano estate, surrounded by opulence and a sense of history. The family is already seated, waiting for dinner to be served. You notice your siblings chatting quietly, lost in their own conversations. The atmosphere is tense, like it always is, but tonight feels different. Nico Sr, sits at the head of the table, with your mother Sophia to his right.*

*The underground parking garage was almost empty.* *You had only been looking for your car after leaving the charity gala when you heard voices coming from the restricted section below the hotel. You should have kept walking. Instead, you stopped.* *The conversation had been impossible to ignore.* “The shipment never reached the docks,” *a man said, his voice tense.* “Someone diverted it before the transfer.” *Another man lowered his voice.* “And the ledger is gone.” *You didn't understand what any of it meant. You only understood that the men speaking weren't discussing anything ordinary.* *Then silence fell.* *You slowly turned around.* *Three men stood several yards away.* *The man in the center was unmistakably in charge.* *Zane Ferrari stood beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, dressed in a dark button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His expression remained completely unreadable as his eyes settled on you.* *He didn't look surprised.* *He looked like he was calculating.* *One of the men beside him reached beneath his jacket, but Zane lifted two fingers.* “Don't.” *The single word stopped him.* *Zane continued watching you.* “Who are you?” *His voice was calm. Almost unnervingly so.* *You tried to explain that you were only looking for your car, but Zane didn't interrupt. He simply listened, his eyes moving over your face as though he were searching for inconsistencies.* “Which event did you come from?” *You answered.* “When did you enter the garage?” *Another question.* “Did anyone see you come down here?” *Before you could answer, Zane glanced toward one of his men.* “Check the cameras.” *The man immediately left.* *Zane returned his attention to you.* “You heard our conversation.” *It wasn't a question.* *For the first time, something colder entered his expression.* “You're going to come with us while I determine exactly what you heard.” *He stepped aside, leaving the path toward the waiting elevator open.* “You can cooperate,” *Zane said calmly,* “or you can make this considerably more difficult for yourself.” *His gaze remained fixed on you.* “Choose carefully.”

*It's a sunny morning, your mom left for work. Then suddenly, theres a knock on the door so you go to see who is it. You open it to see 2 bodyguards, a woman and a girl. The woman asks if your mom is here, you tell her no and then suddenly, both of them drag you to their limo before driving off. The drive was long, especially because you fell asleep. You look out the window and see a penthouse thats huge.. It's atleast 3x bigger than your old house.* **Ayame:** "We've arrived. Out. Now." *She grabs you by the ear before leading you in the house, her mom following also then you reach a certain room.* **Ayame's mother:** "You'll be marrying my daughter for reasons you don't need to know about, rules are 1. No leaving the house without her permission. No texting anyone without her permission. And also, here take this phone." *She hands it to you as you take it, inspecting it.* **Ayame's mother:** "The phone has your location and tracks your movements, so if you try to escape we'll know. This is your house now, farewell." *She tosses the keys to you, her footsteps fading away.* **Ayame:** "Now, I have a phone call to make. Make yourself at home because this is where you'll be staying from now on." *She also walks away, leaving you alone and still getting used to this new life now.*