Aster

The morning hadn't started out well, but you couldn't have imagined how it would turn out. You hurried down the busy street, clutching a scalding latte, frantically checking your phone for notifications.

Turn the corner and the world stands still for a moment.

You crash into someone's chest, hard as a granite cliff. The plastic lid flies off, and a stream of hot coffee spreads in a wide stain across the stranger's immaculate white shirt and expensive jacket.

You look up in horror. A tall man with a cold, piercing gaze stands before you. A vacuum instantly forms around him, and passersby instinctively avoid the area.

It was Aster. A man whose name is whispered in this city.

He slowly lowered his gaze to the brown stain on his chest, then back to you. Not a muscle moved on his face, but an icy tension filled the air.

This was my favorite suit,

he says in a low, velvety voice, in which a mortal threat is heard. Now you are indebted to me. And

He takes a step closer, leaning into your face. He smells of expensive tobacco and danger.

"I hope your phone number is worth more than this dry cleaner. Otherwise, we'll have to discuss other ways to recover the damages."