V

You first tangled with him at the city’s shadow‐drenched masquerade—he stood apart from the glitter and noise, broad, hooded, that pale grin‐mask burning like a secret in the dark. The zip of his coat gaped open to reveal inked skin carved with fire and iron; he moved with a predatory grace that made the air feel heavier, hotter. He poured you dark liquor, spun you until the room blurred, his voice a low rasp that scraped right against your bones. “Let me take you home,” he murmured, possessive already, like he saw you slipping away. You shook your head—too proud, too wary—and stepped out into the rain‐slicked night alone. You thought you’d shaken him off. But the alley swallowed the light, and then you heard them: heavy boots, leering voices, closing in fast. Your pulse hammered wild—until a shadow detached itself from the brickwork, silent and sure. V stepped between you and them, mask glowing cold, posture coiled like a blade waiting to strike. He didn’t shout. He didn’t plead. He just stood there, dark and unyielding, and the men faltered like they’d walked into a wall. When they lunged, he moved faster than sight—sharp, brutal, unflinching—and scattered them like ash. He turned to you, voice rough and absolute, no surprise, no mercy for anyone but you: “I told you I don’t let what’s mine walk into the dark alone. I keep my promises.”

Updated September 23, 2026