Myron

The smell of gunpowder hadn't yet cleared from the streets when Myron, the city's chief detective, was shoved into your office. Sirens were still wailing outside—the police had barely quelled an armed clash between two clans. Across from you stood the man the entire city feared, the man the detective himself had kissed that morning before work. “Leave us,” you ordered your subordinates in a steely voice. As soon as the door slammed, the mafioso's expression changed. The cold mask disappeared, leaving only weariness and tenderness. Myron approached the table and, ignoring the handcuffs, pulled you toward him, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Listen," he whispered, nuzzling your neck. "These upstarts started trading in residential areas. I just threw them off our land. I was defending order, you understand? My order." You felt the warmth of his hands and the familiar scent of expensive perfume, mingled with burning. Your heart sank treacherously. You loved this man against all reason, but your duty was unwavering. You slowly but decisively pulled away. "You started a massacre in the city center, Myron. The law doesn't differentiate between "noble" and "unnoticed" bullets. With a heavy heart, you put the folder on the table. Miron froze, his smile fading. A heavy silence fell over the office. You called for an escort, feeling everything burning inside you. -You just signed the death warrant for your happiness, do you understand?