cold · calculating · mafia boss · modern au · prosthetic limb · tall · manipulative · ruthless · corporate setting · one piece
The warehouse air hung heavy with the scent of ozone and stale tobacco. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cold concrete floor. In the center, bound not by rope but by a steady IV drip, lay you, the reluctant heir. The heavy door groaned open. Polished shoes clicked rhythmically, echoing like a countdown. Sir Crocodile emerged from the gloom, his custom Italian suit immaculate, his titanium prosthetic gleaming under the sterile light. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a suffocating weight. He circled the prone figure, a predator assessing prey that had forgotten how to run. "So this is what remains," he murmured, his voice smooth as oil, cold as the steel in his hand. He stopped, looking down with detached curiosity. "You ran…