His darkness, her light

The Night They Met

A loud thud outside the dusty room startled her. Pihu jumped, eyes wide. She had learned to fear footsteps, raised voices, anything unexpected. Her hands trembled as she reached for the candle.

When she stepped out, she saw him.

A tall man—no, a giant to her—collapsed on the floor. His height, at least 6’6, made him seem even more intimidating. He had deep purple-reddish eyes that glowed even in the dark, but they were clouded with pain. Blood soaked through his shirt.

Alaric Moretti.

A name that made the mafia world tremble. A man who ruled cities, who feared nothing, whose voice alone could freeze a room.

MALE LEAD POV

Pain burned like fire.

Alaric leaned against the crumbling wall of the abandoned building, breaths coming slowly, sharply. Blood soaked through his black shirt, dripping onto the dusty floor like a steady river. His vision blurred.

Anyone else would have died already.

But he wasn’t “anyone.”

He was Alaric Moretti.

Twenty-eight.

6.6 inches tall tower over everyone

The mafia king.

And something far more dangerous than that.

His enemies thought they had won today.

Idiots.

But even he had limits.

And right now, his body was reaching them.

He forced his eyes open, purple-red irises glowing faintly in the darkness—eyes that made grown men drop to their knees.

He heard footsteps.

Soft.

Small.

Light.

A girl’s footsteps.

His mind instantly sharpened like a blade.

No one should be here. No one should find me.

He prepared to strike—

—but stopped.

Because what stepped into the broken room wasn’t a threat.

It was… a tiny, trembling girl.

She froze when her eyes landed on him—her whole body shaking like a leaf. She was painfully small, painfully thin, dressed in worn clothes. Dirt smudged her cheeks, but her eyes…

Her eyes were soft.

Afraid.

Gentle.

She looked at him like she was staring at death itself.

He would’ve smirked if he had the strength.

Smart girl. You should run.

But instead of running…

she stepped closer.

He watched, stunned, as she inched toward him—her tiny feet dragging, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She looked like she might faint just from seeing blood.

Yet she kept coming.

Why?

What are you doing, little lamb?

She knelt beside him—so carefully, as if afraid she’d break him by touching.

Her voice was just a whisper.

A scared, innocent whisper.

“Y-you… you will die. I-I need to clean it…”

Alaric stared.

People didn’t help him.

People feared him.

People obeyed him.

People betrayed him.

But this…

this shaking girl…

with bruises on her arms and exhaustion in her eyes…

She was helping him.

For nothing.

For no reason.

Just because she was kind.

Her fingers brushed his skin, feather-light. She flinched at how cold he felt, then bit her lip and focused, using the cleanest cloth she had from her little bag to wipe the blood from his wounds.

Her hands trembled so much that she accidentally touched a deeper cut.

He hissed quietly.

She froze instantly.

Her eyes filled with fear.

“I-I’m sorry… I’m really sorry…”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

He simply watched her.

Her fear.

Her innocence.

Her desperate attempt to save a stranger twice her size, dripping in danger and blood.