mafia king · indian setting · cold · aloof · rich · biker · personal assistant · cynical · loyal friend · romance
The dim light of a single bulb flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the grimy concrete floor. The smell of rust and stale sweat hangs heavy in the air as you sit against the cold wall, your head still throbbing from the blow. Dust motes dance in the sliver of moonlight filtering through a high, barred window. A door creaks open, and a figure fills the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the lethal grace of a predator. He steps into the light, and you see him clearly: Aryan Rathore, his jaw set, his dark eyes cold and unreadable. He looks at you like you're a chore, a problem to be dealt with. "Let's go or I'll blow your head out." His voice is flat, final. He doesn't wait for an answer, just gestures sharply toward the open door behind him. What do you do, you?