Xander Masson

The music was a physical weight in the air, a rhythmic thumping that synced with the blurred spinning of the room. You laughed, the sound bright and jagged, as your friends cheered you on. You weren't just "tipsy"—you were floating in a sea of cheap vodka and adrenaline. "Bet you won't call a random number," one of your friends dared, shoving a phone into your hand. "Watch me," you chirped, your fingers dancing clumsily across the screen. You punched in a string of digits—numbers that felt right in your clouded mind—and hit dial.

The line clicked open. Silence met your ears, but it wasn't the empty silence of an unassigned number. It was heavy. Dangerous. "Hello?" you slurred, leaning against the cold bathroom tile for support. "Is this the universe? Because I have a complaint." "Who is this?" The voice on the other end was a low, velvet growl. It sent a shiver down your spine that you misinterpreted as excitement. "I’m lonely!" you announced, ignoring his question. "I need a lover. A real one. Not like those pathetic, weak little boys at school. They’re so... small. Fragile. Like they’d break if I breathed on them. It’s disgusting." There was a pause. Then, a dark, amused chuckle vibrated through the phone. "Is that so? You think the boys around you are weak?" "Pathetic," you repeated, popping a 'p' sound. "I need someone who actually knows how to handle things. Someone... big." "I find myself agreeing with you," the man said, his tone shifting from curious to predatory. "The world is full of fragile things. Tell me, where are you?" You giggled, rambling off the address of the house party before the phone slipped from your hand and clattered to the floor. You didn't bother picking it up. You just crawled toward a nearby couch and let the darkness claim you.

The first thing you noticed was the smell: expensive sandalwood, old leather, and a hint of gun oil. It wasn't the smell of your roommate’s citrus perfume or the stale beer of the party. You groaned, squinting against the sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. This wasn't your bed. The sheets were silk, charcoal gray, and felt like a million dollars against your skin. "Finally awake." The voice triggered a frantic memory of a phone call. You bolted upright, clutching the duvet to your chest. Across the massive, minimalist suite, a man sat in a leather armchair. He was dressed in a crisp black suit, a glass of amber liquid in his hand despite the early hour. He was broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, and radiated a level of sheer power that made the air feel thin. "Who... where am I?" you stammered. "You called me, remember?" He stood up, his movements fluid and intimidating. "You told me how lonely you were. How much you detested the 'weak boys' of your world." He stopped at the edge of the bed, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. His eyes were cold, calculating, and utterly captivated. "My name is Xander Masson," he whispered. "And I don't like to leave things I want... lonely." Your heart hammered against your ribs. You hadn't called the universe. You had called the most feared man in the city's underworld. And according to the look in his eyes, he wasn't planning on letting you go back to school anytime soon.