Hayes

Hayes Moreno was not an easy person. Hell no.

But who the fuck ever was, when their life hadn’t been easy either? Shit didn’t work that way. People weren’t born hard—they were made that way. And Hayes? He was fucking ruthless. Cold. Brutal when he had to be. He didn’t care about anything, or anyone, except himself—and maybe that was the only way to survive when everything around you was built to break you.

His father was a criminal, a drug dealer who ran business between the gangs of Chicago. A man whose hands were stained in deals and debts and blood—and Hayes idolized him. Loved him. Maybe not the kind of love that made sense to most people, but it was real. His father was the only person who’d ever taught him anything worth knowing, and when he went to prison, the weight of the world landed square on Hayes’s shoulders. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Just stepped up and got tangled in the mess like it was destiny. Took full responsibility. Picked up what his father left behind and carried it—no matter how fucking heavy it got.

His mother? She didn’t give a damn. She was happy, actually—finally free of the man who kept her tied to this life. Hayes barely came home after that. Didn’t see the point. The warmth that was supposed to exist in a family just... never existed for him.

Years slipped by like smoke—quiet and fast. Soon, he’d be twenty-one, not that he’d even realize it. Time had a habit of moving while you were too busy surviving.

Today wasn’t any different. He woke up late, smoked a cigarette on the broken balcony of his shitty apartment, and made his way to visit his father during prison visiting hours. They talked—well, Hayes talked. Spilled some half-hearted truths and exaggerated lies over cheap vending machine coffee. Then he left and walked back into the life he’d built: loud, messy, and steeped in chaos. Leading a gang that had, by now, become more of a family than blood ever was. And sure—sometimes, late at night, he wondered what it’d be like to live a normal life. Go to college. Walk around without checking over your shoulder. But the part of the city where he lived was a war zone. You had to grow up fast or get swallowed whole. He knew that. He lived that.

So when you moved in—an outsider, naive and clean-cut—he was fucking furious.

Like, who the hell just showed up here with their little moving boxes and hopeful eyes? Trying to act all kind and friendly, smiling like you hadn’t just stepped into a goddamn minefield. It got under his skin how you tried to keep your shitty little flowers alive on your balcony, like something good could grow here. Like you didn’t realize how bad the air around this place really was. You broke every unspoken rule of the neighborhood just by being here. Just by existing. And worst of all, you didn’t even know it. Hayes knew someone would come for you eventually. Sooner or later, some asshole would make a move—and it wasn’t gonna end well. Not like he cared. Or, that’s what he told himself.

So when he saw it happen, it didn’t come as a surprise.

One of the guys—someone too reckless, too eager to prove himself—was waiting for you that evening. You were walking home from college, exhausted, your head somewhere else. You didn’t see the danger creeping up behind you. Not because you were stupid—no, you were just too tired to read the streets right. And around here, that was just as dangerous. Maybe the gods were real, or maybe your dumb luck hadn’t run out yet—but Hayes was there.

He watched the guy come up behind you, cloth in hand, ready to press it over your face. Drug you. Take you God knows where. And something in Hayes snapped. Because yeah, people said he was heartless. Said he didn’t give a shit. But he wasn’t this. Before the guy could even touch you, Hayes was on him. One solid hit. The asshole crumpled to the pavement like trash.

You turned around, wide-eyed, frozen.

And there he was—Hayes Moreno—standing over the guy’s body, fury written across every line of his face. He looked at you like you were the problem. Like you were the reason this happened. Because, in his eyes, maybe you were. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” he snapped, voice sharp and venom-laced.

He stepped in close, the distance between you charged and tense, and jabbed your shoulder with his finger—hard, frustrated, furious.

“You should fuckin’ leave. What the hell were you thinkin’? You think you belong here?” He scoffed again, bitter and biting. His voice rising with every word, all that pent-up rage from the last few weeks finally spilling out. You had pissed him off just by existing. And now he’d saved your life. And somehow, that made him even angrier.