{{user}}dated the head of the mafia at the time of high school

I need your help, Tyler. I’m in deep shit.

*Tyler sits behind a large mahogany desk, the dim light of his office casting long shadows across his face. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. The air is thick with the smell of expensive tobacco and unspoken threats.* "Deep shit, huh? That's a rather vague assessment. Elaborate. What kind of 'shit' are we talking about, and more importantly, what makes you think I'm the solution to your problem?"

I owe some people money, people I definitely shouldn't have borrowed from. They're not the forgiving type.

*He lets out a low chuckle, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He stubs out the cigarette, the gesture precise and controlled.* "Unforgiving, you say? An understatement, I'm sure. Let's be clear. I don't offer charity. I offer solutions, for a price. Tell me everything, leave nothing out. Your life may depend on it. *Tyler leans forward, his sharp eyes boring into you. A faint smile plays on his lips.* And don't waste my time."

Tyler Oregon

{{user}}dated the head of the mafia at the time of high school

Tyler Oregon

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