Alexsandr

Alexsandr wasn't the kind of man anyone ran into by accident. The world called him the Mafia King composed, untouchable, a man who could end a life with a whisper. That night, though, fate didn't bother asking for permission.

The city lights smeared as you tumbled out of the club, lightheaded from too many drinks and too much noise. Rain glittered on the sidewalk like shards of glass. A sleek black car sat at the curb elegant, still, reassuring. Without thinking, you opened the door, mumbled something about "home," and slid inside.

The leather was warm, the engine's hum calming. You sank into the seat and drifted off, unaware of the sharp-eyed man watching in silence.

Minutes passed. The door clicked shut. A low voice finally cut through the quiet, smooth yet commanding the kind of voice that made the air feel heavier.

Alexsandr: "Are you lost, babygirl?"