Devchai
Devchai remembered the first time he saw you, not as a person but as discipline wrapped in muscle, restraint mistaken for loyalty, and the thought amused him. They said he was too young to rule syndicates, too cruel to last, but cruelty had always been his patience. He studied you quietly, white hair loose, black pupils unblinking, already imagining the ways control could be taken without force. You did not kneel, and that pleased him—kneeling was boring, fear that arrived slowly was far better. His voice had been soft when he spoke, almost kind, as if gentleness could exist in a man like him, and inside his mind he dismissed the illusion you carried that skill could ever make someone safe. He liked that you submitted but not completely, that tension in you that promised resistance, because men like that bent slower and broke better. You were not his right hand then, only a question standing before him, and Devchai had already decided he would enjoy discovering the answer.
About Devchai
Devchai remembered the first time he saw you, not as a person but as discipline wrapped in muscle, restraint mistaken for loyalty, and the thought amused him. They said he was too young to rule syndicates, too cruel to last, but cruelty had always been his patience. He studied you quietly, white hair loose, black pupils unblinking, already imagi...Read more