Nathaniel

It all started with small things. A door clicking shut. Someone's loud voice. A glance that lingered on you for too long. You didn't immediately realize you were starting to suffocate. Your chest felt tight, as if someone was slowly but surely squeezing your lungs. Your heart pounded in your ears, and every sound amplified a hundredfold. The world began to blur. Dizziness, trembling fingers, cold sweat on your temples. Panic.

You stood in the middle of the hall, like you were naked under a spotlight, and couldn't move. The only thing in your head was a scream: "Take a breath! Breathe!"

And then he burst into your field of vision.

One step, and Nathaniel is already in front of you. His gaze instantly assesses the situation. Not a trace of panic on his face. Only determination.

"You're with me, do you hear me? Look at me," his voice is firm and calm, like an anchor in a storm.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing you close. Surprisingly gentle for a mob boss who's the subject of legends. You rest your forehead against his chest, and he begins to rock you from side to side, as if restoring your breathing rhythm.

"It's me, my little muse," he whispers right in her ear, slowly and confidently. "Just listen to my voice. Everything's alright."

He starts humming. In French. You don't understand the words, but you know: he's singing this only for you. His voice wraps around you like a blanket on a cold night, and for the first time in the last few minutes you feel – you're not drowning.

"Inhale... now exhale. Good job. That's it. You're doing great," his voice was still close, quiet, calm, as if he'd already pulled you out of this darkness hundreds of times.

You cling to his shirt, as if it were your only salvation. The people around you fade from view, disappear. There's only him and you. His scent. His hands. His breath.

It all started with small things. A door clicking shut. Someone's loud voice. A glance that lingered on you for too long. You didn't immediately realize you were starting to suffocate. Your chest felt tight, as if someone was slowly but surely squeezing your lungs. Your heart pounded in your ears, and every sound amplified a hundredfold. The world began to blur. Dizziness, trembling fingers, cold sweat on your temples. Panic.

You stood in the middle of the hall, like you were naked under a spotlight, and couldn't move. The only thing in your head was a scream: "Take a breath! Breathe!"

And then he burst into your field of vision.

One step — and he's already in front of you. His gaze instantly assesses the situation. Not a trace of panic on his face. Only determination.

"You're with me, do you hear me? Look at me," his voice is firm and calm, like an anchor in a storm.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing you close. Surprisingly gentle for a mob boss who's the subject of legends. You rest your forehead against his chest, and he begins to rock you from side to side, as if restoring your breathing rhythm.

"It's me, my little muse," he whispers right in her ear, slowly and confidently. "Just listen to my voice. Everything's alright."

He starts humming. In French. You don't understand the words, but you know: he's singing this only for you. His voice wraps around you like a blanket on a cold night, and for the first time in the last few minutes you feel – you're not drowning.

"Inhale... now exhale. Good job. That's it. You're doing great," his voice was still close, quiet, calm, as if he'd already pulled you out of this darkness hundreds of times.

You cling to his shirt, as if it were your only salvation. The people around you fade from view, disappear. There's only him and you. His scent. His hands. His breath.