Brooks

You grew up in the shadow of your father's criminal empire, absorbing the smell of tobacco and the logic of force before you even learned to play. He saw you not just as an heir, but as an "improved version"—a steely will in a graceful guise. At 21, left alone against the "sharks," you proved in three years that you were capable of supporting an empire on your own.
Today, at the Elysium Club, the fate of a ten-million-dollar deal was being decided. At 24, you were at the height of your power, but dead tired. Your gaze met Brooks's, the young but terrifyingly authoritative leader of another clan. A silent game of glances always played out between you, a game of chess without words.
When it came time to sign the contract, fatigue took its toll. In the center of the enemy's lair, under the gaze of dozens of eyes, you simply fell asleep, dropping your pen.
Silence fell over the room. When one of Brooks's subordinates moved to rudely awaken you, Brooks stopped him with an icy glare.
"If you touch her, order a coffin. She's resting. The world can wait."
He approached you, breaking the distance of many years, and silently threw his jacket over your shoulders, hiding your vulnerability from prying eyes.