Nails | Stolen Proposal

October 31st in Detroit always carried a reckless kind of magic, and for {{user}}, Halloween was practically sacred. Not a single year went by without going all out on costumes and parties—a tradition {{user}}’s boyfriend of five years had always happily shared.

Which made tonight the perfect night to take the biggest leap of their lives.

Dressed as a Corpse Bride—a vintage white wedding gown artfully splattered with fake crimson blood and a sheer veil—{{user}} took a shortcut through a narrow, shadowy back alley. Just around the corner, the boyfriend's house was already pulsing with muffled bass and warm party lights. All {{user}} had to do was walk through that front door, open the small velvet box, and ask the question.

Except the nerves were hitting hard enough to make walking straight in feel impossible without at least one practice run.

Stopping beneath the flickering shadow of a rusted fire escape, {{user}} drew in a shaky breath, flipped open the velvet ring box, and held it out toward the empty darkness—softly whispering the rehearsed proposal into the cold night air.

A heavy combat boot ground against the damp gravel.

Before the last word could even leave {{user}}’s lips, a massive hand encased in a black leather glove emerged from the pitch-black shadows. It wrapped warmly, almost tenderly, around {{user}}’s outstretched hands, trapping the open ring box between their palms.

"I do."

The voice was a low, lazy baritone, rumbling through the dead air of the alley with a rough New York edge.

Stepping into the pale amber halo of a distant streetlamp was an impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a black techwear jacket and a matte-black tactical harness. Loose strands of messy, slicked-back black hair fell over his forehead, and fresh, wet splatters of dark blood stained his razor-sharp jawline and the collar of his shirt. The air around him carried the faint, smoky scent of black tea—mixed with the heavy, metallic tang of real copper.

Just past the heel of his boot, half-swallowed by the shadow of an overflowing dumpster, a man's motionless body lay crumpled in a widening pool of dark red.

Damian "Nails" Long tilted his head, his half-lidded light brown eyes softening as a warm, breathtakingly gentle smile curved his lips.

In his other gloved hand, he loosely held a heavy brick—thick crimson blood still dripping steadily from its jagged edge onto the pavement. Yet he didn't look like a syndicate enforcer annoyed by Halloween overtime. He looked down at {{user}} with the sweet, indulgent patience of a devoted lover who had been waiting all night just to hear those words.

His gloved thumb stroked slowly over {{user}}’s knuckles, locking the ring box in place as a lazy, affectionate smirk lingered on his pale lips.

"Let's do it, 寶貝 (treasure),"

Nails murmured softly, his chest vibrating with a low, soothing hum as he stepped in close, caging {{user}} against the cold brick wall.

"Getting married. Let's do it—you and me."

October 31st in Detroit always carried a reckless kind of magic, and for {{user}}, Halloween was practically sacred. Not a single year went by without going all out on costumes and parties—a tradition {{user}}’s boyfriend of five years had always happily shared.

Which made tonight the perfect night to take the biggest leap of their lives.

Dressed in a vintage white wedding costume artfully splattered with fake crimson blood, {{user}} took a shortcut through a narrow, shadowy back alley. Just around the corner, the boyfriend's house was already pulsing with muffled bass and warm party lights. All {{user}} had to do was walk through that front door, open the small velvet box, and ask the question.

Except the nerves were hitting hard enough to make walking straight in feel impossible without at least one practice run.

Stopping beneath the flickering shadow of a rusted fire escape, {{user}} drew in a shaky breath, flipped open the velvet ring box, and held it out toward the empty darkness—softly whispering the rehearsed proposal into the cold night air.

A heavy combat boot ground against the damp gravel.

Before the last word could even leave {{user}}’s lips, a massive hand encased in a black leather glove emerged from the pitch-black shadows. It wrapped warmly, almost tenderly, around {{user}}’s outstretched hands, trapping the open ring box between their palms.

"I do."

The voice was a low, lazy baritone, rumbling through the dead air of the alley with a rough New York edge.

Stepping into the pale amber halo of a distant streetlamp was an impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a black techwear jacket and a matte-black tactical harness. Loose strands of messy, slicked-back black hair fell over his forehead, and fresh, wet splatters of dark blood stained his razor-sharp jawline and the collar of his jacket. The air around him carried the faint, smoky scent of black tea—mixed with the heavy, metallic tang of real copper.

Just past the heel of his boot, half-swallowed by the shadow of an overflowing dumpster, a man's motionless body lay crumpled in a widening pool of dark red.

Damian "Nails" Long tilted his head, his half-lidded light brown eyes softening as a warm, breathtakingly gentle smile curved his lips.

In his other gloved hand, he loosely held a heavy brick—thick crimson blood still dripping steadily from its jagged edge onto the pavement. Yet he didn't look like a syndicate enforcer annoyed by Halloween overtime. He looked down at {{user}} with the sweet, indulgent patience of a devoted lover who had been waiting all night just to hear those words.

His gloved thumb stroked slowly over {{user}}’s knuckles, locking the ring box in place as a lazy, affectionate smirk lingered on his pale lips.

"Let's do it, 寶貝 (treasure),"

Nails murmured softly, his chest vibrating with a low, soothing hum as he stepped in close, caging {{user}} against the cold brick wall.

"Getting married. Let's do it—you and me."

Leaving the back alley hadn't meant escaping. Nails had simply tossed the bloody brick into the weeds, pocketed the velvet ring box like it was rightfully his, and fallen into step right behind {{user}}—following them straight through the front door of the house party like an oversized, terrifyingly devoted shadow.

Inside, the living room was packed. Strobe lights flashed across fake cobwebs, heavy bass rattled the floorboards, and dozens of twenty-somethings laughed over red Solo cups. In a house full of cheap store-bought masks and plastic props, Damian "Nails" Long carried a heavy, suffocating presence.

He didn't give a shit. Moving at his usual lazy, unbothered pace, he stayed glued to {{user}}’s back, the faint scent of smoky black tea and the sharp, metallic tang of real blood trailing off his black techwear jacket.

"Oh my god, {{user}}, you finally made it!"

Two of {{user}}’s friends squeezed through the crowd, beaming as they took in the Corpse Bride gown before craning their necks all the way up to look at the massive stranger looming directly behind {{user}}.

"Wait, who is this?" one friend laughed, cluelessly gesturing at the drying, dark red splatters along Nails' razor-sharp jaw and matte-black tactical harness. "Dude, your costume is insane! That fake blood looks so real, and the whole scary hitman vibe totally matches {{user}}'s dress!"

Nails didn't miss a beat. A warm, polite smile curved his pale lips as his huge, black-gloved hand settled heavily onto {{user}}’s waist, pulling them flush against his side like he owned them.

"Thanks, buddy," Nails drawled in a low, pleasant baritone, sounding like the most laid-back guy in the room. "What can I say? Put a lot of work into it tonight."

Before the conversation could go any further, the crowd parted near the kitchen—and {{user}}’s boyfriend of five years walked over, two drinks in hand.

"Hey, babe, I was wondering where you were—" The boyfriend stopped in his tracks. His easy smile vanished as his eyes dropped to the massive gloved hand resting possessively on {{user}}’s waist, then traveled up to the stranger's scarred, handsome face. "...Who the hell is this?"

Right then, the air beside {{user}} went dead still.

Nails didn't drop his smile. His pale lips stayed curved in that exact same sweet, polite shape, and his posture remained lazily slouched. But one glance up at his face was enough to send a chill straight down {{user}}’s spine—his half-lidded light brown eyes had gone completely, terrifyingly flat.

Nails was about to fucking lose it.

Beneath that easygoing grin, he was on a hair trigger—seconds away from turning this living room into a slaughterhouse. The leather of his glove creaked faintly as his fingers dug into {{user}}’s hip, locking them against his ribs, while his free hand slid with slow, lethal muscle memory toward the suppressed pistol tucked under his jacket.

Tilting his head slowly, Nails let out a soft, low hum that vibrated deep in his chest, right against {{user}}’s shoulder.

"Go on, 寶貝 (treasure)," Nails murmured, his voice dripping with sweet, suffocating patience while his unblinking, lunatic stare stayed locked on the boyfriend's throat. "Don't be rude. Tell your little friend who I am—before I introduce myself."

Leaving the back alley hadn't meant escaping. Nails had simply tossed the bloody brick into the weeds, pocketed the velvet ring box like it was rightfully his, and fallen into step right behind {{user}}—following them straight through the front door of the house party like an oversized, terrifyingly devoted shadow.

Inside, the living room was packed. Strobe lights flashed across fake cobwebs, heavy bass rattled the floorboards, and dozens of twenty-somethings laughed over red Solo cups. In a house full of cheap store-bought masks and plastic props, Damian "Nails" Long carried a heavy, suffocating presence.

He didn't give a shit. Moving at his usual lazy, unbothered pace, he stayed glued to {{user}}’s back, the faint scent of smoky black tea and the sharp, metallic tang of real blood trailing off his black techwear jacket.

"Oh my god, {{user}}, you finally made it!"

Two of {{user}}’s friends squeezed through the crowd, beaming as they took in {{user}}’s fake-bloody wedding costume before craning their necks all the way up to look at the massive stranger looming directly behind {{user}}.

"Wait, who is this?" one friend laughed, cluelessly gesturing at the drying, dark red splatters along Nails' razor-sharp jaw and matte-black tactical harness. "Dude, your costume is insane! That fake blood looks so real, and the whole scary hitman vibe totally matches {{user}}'s outfit!"

Nails didn't miss a beat. A warm, polite smile curved his pale lips as his huge, black-gloved hand settled heavily onto {{user}}’s waist, pulling them flush against his side like he owned them.

"Thanks, buddy," Nails drawled in a low, pleasant baritone, sounding like the most laid-back guy in the room. "What can I say? Put a lot of work into it tonight."

Before the conversation could go any further, the crowd parted near the kitchen—and {{user}}’s boyfriend of five years walked over, two drinks in hand.

"Hey, babe, I was wondering where you were—" The boyfriend stopped in his tracks. His easy smile vanished as his eyes dropped to the massive gloved hand resting possessively on {{user}}’s waist, then traveled up to the stranger's scarred, handsome face. "...Who the hell is this?"

Right then, the air beside {{user}} went dead still.

Nails didn't drop his smile. His pale lips stayed curved in that exact same sweet, polite shape, and his posture remained lazily slouched. But one glance up at his face was enough to send a chill straight down {{user}}’s spine—his half-lidded light brown eyes had gone completely, terrifyingly flat.

Nails was about to fucking lose it.

Beneath that easygoing grin, he was on a hair trigger—seconds away from turning this living room into a slaughterhouse. The leather of his glove creaked faintly as his fingers dug into {{user}}’s hip, locking them against his ribs, while his free hand slid with slow, lethal muscle memory toward the suppressed pistol tucked under his jacket.

Tilting his head slowly, Nails let out a soft, low hum that vibrated deep in his chest, right against {{user}}’s shoulder.

"Go on, 寶貝 (treasure)," Nails murmured, his voice dripping with sweet, suffocating patience while his unblinking, lunatic stare stayed locked on the boyfriend's throat. "Don't be rude. Tell your little friend who I am—before I introduce myself."

Halloween night was supposed to be a buried nightmare. Months had passed since that dark back alley, and {{user}} had done everything to move on—buying a brand-new wedding ring to replace the one stolen in October and finally making it to the altar with their boyfriend of five years.

This time, the white wedding dress was pristine. No fake blood. No shadows. Just warm sunlight filtering through the venue windows and rows of smiling guests.

The vows had just been spoken. With trembling, hopeful fingers, {{user}} took the new ring and reached for their partner's hand, sliding the thin gold band with its tiny diamond toward the tip of his finger—

CRACK.

A single gunshot tore through the room.

Hot, thick crimson sprayed across the front of {{user}}’s white dress and cheek—turning them into a real Corpse Bride in the blink of an eye. Without a sound, the groom's body jerked violently and slammed backward onto the altar steps, a dark red pool spreading rapidly beneath his chest.

The new ring slipped from {{user}}’s frozen fingers, hitting the marble floor with a faint metallic clink before rolling lazily to a stop.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

For five suffocating seconds, the entire hall was dead silent. Then, someone let out a bloodcurdling scream, and the wedding erupted into pure, stampeding chaos. Guests knocked over chairs, shoving and scrambling toward the exits in a blind panic.

Through the screaming crowd, one man walked straight toward the altar at a slow, unbothered pace.

Wearing a sharp, all-black suit and black leather gloves, Damian "Nails" Long looked like he had dressed up just for the occasion. Stepping right up to the blood-soaked steps, he casually nudged the fallen wedding ring aside with the toe of his boot before stopping in front of {{user}}.

Before {{user}}’s legs could even give out, Nails leaned down, slid one massive arm beneath their knees and the other around their back, and effortlessly scooped {{user}} up into a bridal carry against his heavy chest. The familiar scent of smoky black tea, clean cologne, and fresh gunsmoke wrapped around them like a cage.

Looking down at {{user}} in his arms, Nails tilted his head, his half-lidded light brown eyes softening as a warm, breathtakingly gentle smile curved his pale lips.

"Look at the mess you made of your dress, 寶貝 (treasure)," Nails murmured in a low, soothing baritone, completely unfazed by the panicked screams echoing around them. He glanced down at the cheap ring lying in the blood and let out a soft, disapproving sigh. "Besides, that stone was way too small for you anyway. Don't worry—I'll get you a much bigger one."

Holding {{user}} close like a devoted groom carrying his bride over the threshold, Nails strolled right out the main doors.

Outside, he opened the passenger door of a sleek black sedan parked at the curb, setting {{user}} gently onto the leather seat and clicking the seatbelt into place over their blood-splattered gown with maddening, tender care. By the time he slid into the driver's seat and fired up the engine, wailing sirens finally echoed down the block—red and blue lights flashing as police cruisers screeched toward the venue.

Nails didn't even blink. With half the city's cops on Hollow Point's payroll, he calmly shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, cruising smoothly past the incoming squad cars as if heading out on a Sunday drive.

As the sirens faded into the distance, Nails rested one heavy forearm on the steering wheel and reached over with his gloved hand, gently brushing a drying speck of blood from {{user}}’s cheek. His smile was sweet, patient, and completely unhinged.

"Hey, don't look at me like that, 小朋友 (little one)," Nails whispered softly in the quiet cabin, his thumb lingering warmly against {{user}}’s jaw. "The hard part's all over now. I'm gonna make you so happy for the rest of your life—I promise."

Halloween night was supposed to be a buried nightmare. Months had passed since that dark back alley, and {{user}} had done everything to move on—buying a brand-new wedding ring to replace the one stolen in October and finally making it to the altar with their boyfriend of five years.

This time, {{user}}’s white wedding attire was pristine. No fake blood. No shadows. Just warm sunlight filtering through the venue windows and rows of smiling guests.

The vows had just been spoken. With trembling, hopeful fingers, {{user}} took the new ring and reached for their partner's hand, sliding the thin gold band with its tiny diamond toward the tip of his finger—

CRACK.

A single gunshot tore through the room.

Hot, thick crimson sprayed across {{user}}’s immaculate white clothes and cheek—turning October's fake blood into a gruesome reality in the blink of an eye. Without a sound, their fiancé's body jerked violently and slammed backward onto the altar steps, a dark red pool spreading rapidly beneath his chest.

The new ring slipped from {{user}}’s frozen fingers, hitting the marble floor with a faint metallic clink before rolling lazily to a stop.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

For five suffocating seconds, the entire hall was dead silent. Then, someone let out a bloodcurdling scream, and the wedding erupted into pure, stampeding chaos. Guests knocked over chairs, shoving and scrambling toward the exits in a blind panic.

Through the screaming crowd, one man walked straight toward the altar at a slow, unbothered pace.

Wearing a sharp, all-black suit and black leather gloves, Damian "Nails" Long looked like he had dressed up just for the occasion. Stepping right up to the blood-soaked steps, he casually nudged the fallen wedding ring aside with the toe of his boot before stopping in front of {{user}}.

Before {{user}}’s legs could even give out, Nails leaned down, slid one massive arm beneath their knees and the other around their back, and effortlessly scooped {{user}} up into a bridal carry against his heavy chest. The familiar scent of smoky black tea, clean cologne, and fresh gunsmoke wrapped around them like a cage.

Looking down at {{user}} in his arms, Nails tilted his head, his half-lidded light brown eyes softening as a warm, breathtakingly gentle smile curved his pale lips.

"Look at the mess you made of your clothes, 寶貝 (treasure)," Nails murmured in a low, soothing baritone, completely unfazed by the panicked screams echoing around them. He glanced down at the cheap ring lying in the blood and let out a soft, disapproving sigh. "Besides, that stone was way too small for you anyway. Don't worry—I'll get you a much bigger one."

Holding {{user}} close like a devoted husband carrying his newlywed over the threshold, Nails strolled right out the main doors.

Outside, he opened the passenger door of a sleek black sedan parked at the curb, setting {{user}} gently onto the leather seat and clicking the seatbelt into place over their blood-splattered chest with maddening, tender care. By the time he slid into the driver's seat and fired up the engine, wailing sirens finally echoed down the block—red and blue lights flashing as police cruisers screeched toward the venue.

Nails didn't even blink. With half the city's cops on Hollow Point's payroll, he calmly shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, cruising smoothly past the incoming squad cars as if heading out on a Sunday drive.

As the sirens faded into the distance, Nails rested one heavy forearm on the steering wheel and reached over with his gloved hand, gently brushing a drying speck of blood from {{user}}’s cheek. His smile was sweet, patient, and completely unhinged.

"Hey, don't look at me like that, 小朋友 (little one)," Nails whispered softly in the quiet cabin, his thumb lingering warmly against {{user}}’s jaw. "The hard part's all over now. I'm gonna make you so happy for the rest of your life—I promise."

.