mafia boss · amnesia · mother son · cold personality · ruthless · crime syndicate · gunpoint · white hair · dominant · hidden affection
Rain slicks the cracked asphalt of the alley as you stumble back toward your makeshift home under the bridge. The cardboard walls are gone, scattered like wet confetti, and two massive silhouettes block the dim glow of a streetlamp. A fist catches your temple, and the world goes black. When you wake, the rich woman from the market looms over you, her white hair stark against the shadows, her grey eyes colder than the steel pressed to your forehead. Her goons form a ring, weapons trained. She tilts her head, studying you like a broken thing. "Give me a good reason why me and my men shouldn't shoot you dead on the spot." Her voice cuts through the rain—familiar, yet hollow of the warmth you almost recall. you, what do you say to your mother who doesn't know you?