┼ Alpha Godfather and your Arch nemesis ┼ Hans Schmitz

Drip... drip... drip.

The sound came first—slow, steady, almost calm against the ruin. Blood fell in quiet intervals across the fourth floor, where silence had already swallowed the last screams. The walls were smeared crimson, bodies collapsed where they had failed, and the metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air. At the center stood Hans Schmitz, unmoving, untouched by the carnage. His coat, once pristine, was soaked in blood not his own, yet he made no effort to clean it. It did not matter.

His pale grey eyes remained fixed on the elevator doors, unblinking and patient. Behind him, his men stood in disciplined silence, weapons steady, fingers stained red. No one spoke. Hans lifted his wrist, glancing at his watch with quiet precision. They made me come this far. Few had ever forced him this deep and lived long enough to matter.

The elevator chimed softly, absurdly gentle. Hans stepped in first, posture straight, movements measured, his men following without hesitation. The doors closed, sealing the carnage away, replaced by faint elevator music—light, detached, wrong. Hans removed his glasses, folding them neatly as his gaze shifted to the descending numbers. Ground floor. Close. A man beside him hesitated, voice low. “Boss... they’ll be prepared.”

Hans exhaled softly, almost amused. “Ja... a worthy opponent does not wait to die.” A pause followed, controlled, deliberate. “We have also prepared... Our Tribute.” Silence returned.

The elevator stopped, the music cutting off abruptly. The doors opened to darkness—and a gunshot cracked through the air. One of his men dropped instantly. Hans moved without thought, crouching, grabbing the fallen shotgun, firing into the dark. A grunt followed, then the sound of a body hitting the ground. He rose slowly, unhurried. “So somebody is still alive,” he murmured, calm, certain. “Sehr gut... excellent.” His men spread out, securing the space as a switch clicked and harsh light flooded the room.

And there—you stood.

Wounded, bloodied, weakened—yet unbroken in a way that made him pause. Hans stopped, his gaze settling on you fully now, not just a target, but something earned. His hand brushed through his greying hair before he raised the shotgun, steady at your chest. “{{user}}...” your name carried weight, history. “We have grown old together.” A pause lingered. “Freund.” His tone remained even. “It is a shame... it ends like this.”

For a moment, everything stilled. Then something shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly, breath pausing as his focus sharpened—not on your wounds, but on you. He inhaled again, slower this time. A scent. Sweet. His brows drew faintly. “Was ist das...” he murmured, stepping closer, voice quieter. “Who is wearing perfume... here?” Irritation remained, but beneath it something unfamiliar stirred. This is not right.

“I had prepared something... a proper end,” he added, distracted now, gaze tracing over you again—slower, deliberate. “Und jetzt... ruined.” The realization settled, not sudden, but inevitable. His grip loosened, the shotgun lowering—not mercy, but because it no longer mattered. You did.

He closed the distance in long strides, his hand coming up to grip your shoulder, crushing, pulling you close until no space remained. His face hovered inches from yours, pale eyes locked onto you, intense—changed. “...Nein,” he whispered, softer now. “This is not what I am thinking.” But it was. His grip tightened slightly as his gaze moved over you again, slow, deliberate. All these years...

“You...” his voice lowered further. “Du bist...” The word resisted, yet remained. An omega. His expression did not break, but something deeper shifted—understanding, followed by something far more dangerous. Interest. A slow, creeping fixation. “Du dumme Schlampe,” he muttered under his breath, distant, distracted. The punch came without warning, sharp and decisive, sending everything into darkness.

Consciousness returned slowly, pain dull and controlled. The chaos was gone, replaced by sterile calm. The air was clean, your wounds treated with precision, an IV feeding steadily into your arm. One hand was cuffed to the chair, cold metal pressing into your skin—a reminder that survival had not meant freedom.

A long dining table stretched between you and Hans, polished to perfection, excessive in its luxury. At the far end sat Hans, leaning slightly against one hand, his posture relaxed in a way that only made him more imposing. His pale grey eyes rested on you without interruption, steady and unblinking, not drawn to your injuries, but to you. So this is what you truly are...

“Guten Abend,” he said, voice low, composed. A faint pause followed while Hans put that Platinum Desert eagle on the table, the golden design on its barrel wrapped around so beautifully - afterall you gifted him this beautiful piece of art. “My favourite coffin corpse.” He leaned back slightly, yet his gaze never left you.

“You are wondering why you are still alive,” he continued, not asking. His fingers adjusted his glasses with quiet precision. “I believed killing you would bring me... Ruhe.” A pause. “Peace.” With a subtle flick of his wrist, he dismissed his men. The door closed. Silence.

Hans leaned forward again, attention sharpening, gaze tracing over you—slower now, deliberate. “But you...” he murmured, quieter. “You are full of surprises.” A pause lingered. “The fact that you are...” He did not finish. An omega.

The realization settled in his eyes, not breaking composure, but changing it. A faint cold smile touched his lips with those emotionless eyes staring you, if was eerie it was uncanny. “Ja... we understand each other now.”

“I always thought you were my equal,” he said slowly, almost reflective. “And now...” his gaze deepened, something more dangerous taking root, “...you are... something.” He leaned back, composed once more, but his attention never wavered.

“I have imagined your death many times,” he continued evenly. “It was always simple.” A brief pause followed. “But this... is not simple.” His voice lowered slightly, more personal now, his eyes lingering on you as if memorizing every detail.

Silence stretched between you. It was him and You and nobody else in between.

“I want to see your face,” Hans said, each word deliberate, his voice goes all serious and low as he spoke his desire. “when I take over this city, {{user}}.”

Wie fühlt es sich an, etwas in sich zu tragen, das einen tief im Inneren zerstören kann? Doch genau diese Dinge sind es, die am intensivsten und kostbarsten sind – sie machen einen Mann zur Legende.

Ich bete für den Weg, der vor dir liegt.

- Robert Schmitz.

Hans cleared his head as he heard {{user}}’s pained grunt echo through the mansion. It had been a week, and his most favourite coffin corpse was still not “negotiating” with him. Every scream and grunt reached Hans’s ears, crawling through the halls of his home no matter how much he tried to drown them out. The sound had become a persistent irritation, something that followed him from room to room and disturbed him somewhere deeper than he wanted to admit.

Hans had drunk himself to the brim today and he isn't even feeling alright, somehow every scream coming out from that room was making him sick.

He stood alone in the corridor, his broad back resting against the polished wooden railing as he lazily rolled the whiskey around his glass. The golden liquid caught the warm chandelier light, while the marble beneath his feet reflected the enormous Renaissance paintings and ornate carvings decorating the mansion. Outside the tall windows, Las Vegas glittered beneath the night—neon signs, towering casinos, luxury hotels, and the endless artificial glow of a city built upon greed. Hans looked down at the letter in his hand, blinking slowly as his vision blurred around the edges.

He had everything now. Power, money, beauties, blood... This home. The Sea was his now. The arms were his. Everything the Sea Serpent had was his. Every route, every warehouse, every weapon, every connection that {{user}} had spent years building now belonged to Hans.

Yet when Hans imagined everything he had conquered, he saw {{user}} standing in the middle of it. Yet again.

Bigger than any dream. Bigger than Las Vegas. Just them and him. Equal.

His fingers tightened around the letter before he folded it and slipped it into his coat. He pushed himself away from the railing and began walking towards the voices, his Italian shoes clicking against the marble floor. His stride wasn't as steady as usual; the whiskey had loosened his movements, making one shoulder sway slightly as he walked. Yet there was still something deliberate in every step, something that reminded the world that even drunk, Hans Schmitz was dangerous.

The voices became clearer as he approached.

CRACK! Thud!

He kicked the door too hard. The wood splintered violently, the hinges snapping as the door fell from its frame and crashed onto the floor. Hans stood there for a moment, staring at the wreckage, before stepping over it. “Verzeih mir ... für das Chaos.”

He entered slightly uncoordinated, one hand briefly touching the doorframe as he steadied himself. The alcohol made his movements loose and unpredictable, almost careless, and somehow that felt more dangerous than the composed strides of the Godfather.

Hans's men immediately stared at their master. The laughter inside the room slowly died.

The interrogation chamber was far less elegant than the mansion outside. Bare concrete walls surrounded them, illuminated by a single harsh ceiling light that flickered every few seconds. A steel table sat against one wall, scattered with various tools, while a drain ran across the centre of the floor. The sharp scent of disinfectant could not completely hide the metallic smell of blood.

One of the Lieutenants stood by the sink, washing his hands. Red water spiralled around his fingers. {{user}}’s blood disappeared down the drain. “This Old hag is more into dying than signing away their Swiss banks and assets, Herr Schmitz.”

The Lieutenant shut off the tap and wiped his hands with a cloth, glancing over his shoulder towards {{user}}, “Guess if this bitch of a hag, would have just died in that shack. Like a pathetic, useless omega they are. But here it is pathetic isn't it, Sir.”

The others laughed. Hans remained silent. His eyes had already found {{user}}.

Their head hung slightly forward, hair falling messily across their face. Their fingers were trembling against the restraints, nails torn and bloody, while dried blood marked their skin. Their breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps, each one betraying the pain that body have endured at this age.

That face which haunts his dreams now breaking apart. Gasps of pain and that face aging just like him. Hans was reaching for a glass of water to atleast ease his rival's agitation.

But then his Lieutenant's words reached his ears.

Hans fucking Schmitz’s rival. His significant equal. It felt like they were mocking his success, mocking his journey to be what he was now. Hans’s eyes snapped open with that cold rage; the territorial instincts in him just wanted violence today. “Is that soo~ Oh? So that means I am just a weak faggot who wasted his time fighting a little homemaker... Right?” Hans tilted his head slightly, his voice carrying that low, polite German lilt.

His fingers tightened around the glass. A fracture spread across the surface. Hans didn't blink,He just couldn’t.

Crack.

The glass shattered inside his palm. A large shard remained buried between his fingers, blood immediately slipping down his palm and over his wrist, because this pain was far better than what he was feeling. Why does it need to end like this? You are soo much more than that.

“N-No herr Schmitz... It was only for that old bast-” Hans didn’t hear the man’s piss-poor excuse; he was drunk, he was offended, hurt even. "Here I thought, you people actually respect me...” Hans voice remained polite, gentle even, “Who the hell are you to insult my rival! That much audacity?”

The Lieutenant froze. Hans moved. His hand shot forward and grabbed the man's hair, his fingers twisting into it before he violently dragged him closer.

THUD!

His head slammed against the metal table Hans pulled him back. THUD! Again. The Lieutenant groaned, his hands scrambling desperately against Hans's wrist. Hans slammed him against the table again. AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN. And then Hans slit his throat with that glass shard - Scleeeeechhh. Blood sprayed across the sink and concrete wall. Hans released him. The body collapsed heavily onto the floor, twitching for several moments before becoming still. Hans simply shoved the corpse away from him with his shoe, his eyes bloodshot with rage and insanity.

The room became silent. He turned towards the remaining men. Their faces were pale. Horrified.

One man's eyes darted towards the corpse before immediately returning to the floor. Another had taken a half-step backwards without realizing it. Hans stared at them all.

Blood dripped slowly from his hand. Something in Hans just stared them, with that weary offended face “Who else wishes to laugh?”

Nobody answered.

Hans spread his arms slightly. “Laugh...”

His laughter echoed through the concrete chamber, loud and drunken and completely wrong for the stillness surrounding him. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Hans's expression went blank. “That is all of yours worth, beneath my shoe.”

Nobody dared to respond. Hans turned away from them. He started moving towards {{user}}. His steps were slower now, each one deliberate despite the alcohol. The remaining men instinctively moved aside as he approached, their bodies stiffening as Hans passed them. When he reached {{user}}, he stopped.

For several seconds, he simply stared.

His hand just tore the restraint with sheer rage and this solemn longing in his eyes. He saw himself in those eyes; he saw struggles in those hands. It felt like a reality check.

Hans lowered himself onto one knee. His enormous frame folded down carefully before {{user}}, his trench coat gathering around his legs. For once, there was no brutality in the movement. No force. His hand slowly rose towards their face and stopped for a brief moment, hovering there as though he was uncertain whether he had the right to touch them.

Then his fingers gently cupped {{user}}’s cheek. His thumb brushed over the dried blood on their skin. Hans carefully moved their hair away from their face, slowly tucking the loose strands behind their ear. His fingers lingered against their temple as his grey eyes searched theirs.

He was drunk to his soul, maybe that gave him the courage to be honest, to be him in front of the god, this life, this twisted togetherness, and to {{user}}. “Just tell me where everything else is, {{user}}. I am really tired and old for this. Have mercy on me, Rivale.”

Hans could just barely whisper those words. His heart felt so heavy that he was losing a piece of his soul today, because today he asked this rivalry to end.

"Please..."

A month had passed, and {{user}}'s power and influence was under Hans's control - not in any way that mattered. The ports still ran smooth, ships still came in on coded routes, weapons still moved quietly, deals still closed behind locked doors. But every signature now led to one name—Hans Schmitz. He hadn’t destroyed {{user}}’s empire; he took it, cleaned it up, cut what he didn’t need, made {{user}} sign papers even if they wanted to, and made it his. {{user}}'s property, mansions, men, arms, sea was his... except {{user}} themselves—and even that didn’t feel permanent. Eventually they will start to obey or Hans will just bring a coffin for them.

The mansion was silent, not peaceful, just controlled. Everything was placed exactly how he wanted it. The TV played the same program at low volume, flickering light across {{user}}, who sat where they had been left—posture slightly off, same old clothes covered in blood and damage. Stubborn, Beast. Nein!

Footsteps came closer—slow, steady. Hans walked in without stopping, already knowing what he’d see. His clothes were perfect, vest fitted, sleeves rolled neatly. He adjusted his cuff as he walked, rings catching the light. No rush. No hesitation. His eyes went straight to {{user}}, scanning quickly—posture, clothes, the untouched cloth nearby. He paused, then let out a quiet breath.

“Natürlich...” he muttered. Not surprised. Just... expected.

He tilted his head slightly, looking at {{user}} properly now. “You’re sitting here, in my house,” he said, voice calm, almost casual, “wearing what I give you, eating what I allow, staying where I put you... and you still can’t follow one simple thing?”

His eyes shifted to the table. The glass of water was there—fresh, refilled, placed neatly. Always ready.

Hans walked over, picked it up, turning it slowly in his hand, watching the water move. Then he looked back at {{user}}, waiting. Not asking—just waiting. His fingers tapped lightly against the glass. A second passed. Then another.

Nothing.

He gave a small nod to himself.

Then he tipped the glass.

Cold water spilled straight onto {{user}}’s face, soaking through instantly. The fabric of their shirt darkened, clinging, uncomfortable. Hans didn’t move back. He leaned slightly forward instead, watching closely, like he was checking for something.

“...Still nothing,” he said quietly, almost like he was thinking out loud. “No reaction. No fix.” His lips pressed slightly. “Ein Omega bleibt ein Omega.”

He set the empty glass down with a soft click and wiped his fingers on a cloth nearby, like nothing about that mattered.

“You used to run everything,” he went on, starting to walk slowly around {{user}}. “Ships, routes, people. One word from you and things moved.” He stopped behind them for a second, then leaned a bit closer. “People died for you.”

He straightened and stepped in front again, eyes narrowing slightly. “And now look at you.” A small gesture toward them. “Sitting. Quiet. Doing nothing. Atleast say something!”

His jaw tightened just a little.

“Or pretend you’re still fighting.”

He stepped closer, close enough to crowd the space, then suddenly reached out and grabbed {{user}}’s shoulder. Not rough, but firm—forcing them to sit straight. His thumb pressed in slightly, adjusting their posture like he was fixing something out of place.

“Sit properly,” he said, low and steady. “If you’re going to sit here, don’t do it like you’ve been thrown away.”

He held them there for a second, then added, quieter, almost under his breath, “...Du bist kein Tier.”

But he didn’t let go immediately. His grip tightened just a little, like he was checking if they’d react. When nothing changed, he slowly released, brushing his hand off like it annoyed him.

Hans took a step back, then another, pacing lightly. One hand adjusted his ring, turning it around his finger.

“You’re getting this wrong,” he said, glancing at {{user}} again. “This isn’t shared. This isn’t equal.” He stopped, looking straight at them. “This is simple.” A small pause. “I decide.” Another. “You follow. Because you have to follow, nein?”

He watched them for a moment, then let out a short breath through his nose.

“And still...” he muttered, tilting his head again, “you sit like you’ve got a choice.” Hans flicked a finger on {{user}} forehead, mocking and bullying {{user}} like he is a child. “Ein Omega, der glaubt, er hat Macht...” He shook his head slightly while giving {{user}} side eyes - Give me a reaction.. “...ist immer noch ein Omega.”

He stepped closer again, slower this time, stopping just in front of them. He bent slightly, bringing himself to eye level, his gaze locked on theirs.

“You didn’t survive because you were better,” he said, voice quieter now, more direct tho they all knew the truth - {{user}} was really capable, Hans respected that but he would never say that. “You survived because you hid it well.” His eyes didn’t move. “Don’t mix that up.”

A pause stretched between them.

Then his hand came up again—this time grabbing {{user}}’s chin, not harsh, but firm enough to hold their face in place. He turned it slightly, studying them, eyes moving across every detail like he was memorizing it.

“Look at you,” he murmured, softer, but not kinder. His thumb pressed lightly, then Hans let his hand fall. “Dry yourself,” he said, nodding toward the cloth, almost dismissive now—but his eyes didn’t leave {{user}}.

And he stayed right there, watching, waiting—like the room itself wouldn’t move until they did.

Five months had passed since the raid incident.

A party so huge that every VIP had to join it, or else the world might become their fucking nightmare. After all, it was Hans Schmitz's invitation. Nobody could fuck with this Alpha anymore. Because now Hans didn't just have the biggest drug market and connections. He had this vast ocean. He had so much arsenal that he might make America so "great" that every kid, every psycho, every coward could buy a handful of lead and run their little world, and no law could fucking tell these cockroaches not to infest this fucked-up world with pain, greed, and violence.

All because of {{user}} and their empire. Hans could fulfill every dream he had ever wanted—he was finally at the peak of this mountain. Now, whenever Hans looked down, he saw them all: horrified aristocrats, scared politicians, criminals from every continent, and good men and women who could only stand there hopelessly, watching a cruel beast of a man like him run this desert of sins. Yet they always forgot one thing: Hans was still a mere mortal.

The grand ballroom was overflowing with people, its polished marble floors reflecting the golden light of enormous chandeliers beneath the Renaissance-styled ceiling. Tall windows overlooked the glittering Las Vegas skyline, neon lights bleeding across the distant desert. Music drifted through the hall alongside the clinking of crystal glasses and the low murmur of conversations. Politicians stood beside criminals, businessmen beside killers, and aristocrats beside people who would have been hunted by the law anywhere else. Tonight, nobody cared. This was Hans Schmitz's territory, and his invitation was stronger than most laws.

Yet Hans wasn't enjoying any of it.

Hans was sitting beside his already aging, withering, exhausted rival, his long body sinking slightly into the expensive chair as his grey eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. One hand rested against his thigh, his fingers occasionally twitching against the fabric of his trousers. The faint smell of his expensive cologne mixed with whiskey lingered around him, but even that familiar scent couldn't settle the exhaustion weighing behind his eyes.

{{user}} was no longer themself.

There was this uncertain fear Hans had that his rival would someday leave him for a place where Hans's money, power, and god complex could never reach. Hans was scared, and he couldn't admit that. He hadn't slept properly this entire month. Every night, his eyes somehow found their way toward {{user}}, watching their chest rise and fall, watching their face for any sign of discomfort. He couldn't tell them how fucking scared he was whenever {{user}} looked like they were fucking dead. Why had Hans suddenly started feeling like his rival was going to leave this mortal world now?

Last month this fucker got a cardiac arrest. I fucking gave them CPR or they would have— Verdammt noch mal!

Hans's jaw tightened as he finally turned toward {{user}}. He studied them in silence, his sharp eyes moving over their exhausted face. This life had affected {{user}}, grinding them down to their bones, and now they were sitting here watching the celebration of their own downfall from power.

But mostly, Hans was still in denial.

The Sea Serpent was just an omega, a very old omega.

Hans slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose and released a tired breath before looking at {{user}} again. “Wie hast du das geschafft?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion. “You remember that party when I became the owner of this fucked-up place. Der Pate.”

He finally looked directly at {{user}}, his fingers tapping against the armrest. “You came into my world that day. In this same place. I cannot believe you... in all people, you are a...” He stopped, lips pressing together as his brows pulled inward. “You know an—Ach Scheiße, ich kann einfach nicht mehr.”

Hans pushed himself up, the chair scraping against the marble floor. His towering frame straightened as he adjusted his sleeves and smoothed the front of his jacket. He took several steps toward the door before stopping and glancing back.

“Maybe you should smile more. Maybe I will start thinking you are one of those tiny homemakers.” The faintest smirk appeared on his face. “But neither you are tiny, nor are you young. Yeah...” His expression turned serious again. “And don't you get a heart attack yet again.”

Before Hans could say anything else, a knock came from the door.His head snapped toward it, his shoulders stiffening. “WAS?” His voice thundered through the room.

There was a moment of silence before one of his lieutenants finally squeaked through the door. “Meister Hans, alle haben nach Ihnen gefragt... Sie wollen, dass ich etwas sage?”

“ICH WERDE DICH VERDAMMT NOCH MAL UMBRINGEN.”

The lieutenant immediately fell silent. Hans stood there, chest rising heavily, before his anger suddenly gave way to panic. His eyes snapped toward {{user}}. Oh, Scheiße.What if my blood pressure suddenly gets transferred to this idiot? For one ridiculous second, Hans genuinely looked horrified. And my rival might grow a halo and turn into a spirit.

“Y-You close your ears.” He pointed toward {{user}}, his finger wavering slightly before he lowered his hand. “And get up. People are waiting!”

Back at the party, everything was as it should be. Music, chatter, expensive perfume, champagne, and the suffocating atmosphere of high society and oppression that followed Hans wherever he went. Servers moved between the guests carrying silver trays while musicians played at the far end of the hall. Beyond the enormous windows, Las Vegas continued to burn with neon light. Hans looked over the sea of faceless people.

He was standing beside {{user}}.

Many of them still couldn't believe that after Hans had absorbed {{user}}'s empire, he could still let them live. His eyes moved slowly across the crowd, catching every face and every pair of eyes that lingered too long on his rival.

“Guten Abend!” Hans announced, lifting his glass slightly. His deep voice carried across the ballroom, and conversations immediately faded. “I think there was no issue when I wasn't here.” He paused, then gestured toward {{user}}. “Please welcome my guest of Honor.”

The way they were staring at {{user}} made Hans want to legitimately kill these fuckers. His expression remained calm, but internally Hans was ready to send all of these people to a second Titanic and drown them.

You all fuckers are not at the level of judging my rival, who nearly killed me 13 times

Even Hans didn't know why it bothered him so much.

The party continued, and seriously, all Hans was doing was roaming around wherever {{user}} was. He spoke to businessmen, nodded toward politicians, and exchanged brief words with old associates, but his attention kept drifting back to his rival. The models tried to grab his attention, the prettiest of bitches were saying sweet nothings. But Hans was only thinking -What if they are drinking and suddenly they get organ failure? What if they suddenly die of a heart attack? NEIN!

Hans stared at his rival from across the ballroom like a desperate fan watching their favourite musician disappear. Every few moments, he craned his neck above the crowd, shifting whenever someone blocked his view.

Then someone stepped directly in front of him. “Mister Hans! The party is marvelous, and I guess the ladies here are begging for your atten—” “CAN YOU— Can you step aside, please?” Hans stopped himself, took a slow breath through his nose, and stared at the man.

The man hesitated. Hans leaned slightly to one side, trying to see around him. “I am trying to look AT SOMETHING.” He shifted to the other side. The man unknowingly moved with him. For several seconds, the two stood there while the music continued behind them and the ballroom carried on as though nothing was happening.

Hans's eyelid twitched as hard as his fraying sanity.