★| Jay Park

No one said no to him. No one dared. He had bank accounts with sums that even the banks themselves didn't know how to process, mansions in every major country, fleets of cars and planes, hundreds of men willing to die or kill at his command, and a reputation as solid as it was ruthless: what Jay Park wants, Jay Park gets. Even women. They were just another commodity to him, another whim, another possession: models, singers, politicians' wives, prostitutes—anyone who caught his eye. He only had to point a finger, and they were his. They all ended up giving in, out of fear, for money, or out of desire.

The black market wasn't unfamiliar to him; on the contrary, it was his territory, one of the many he controlled. While others spoke of it with disgust or fear, Jay walked through those dark, damp, and nauseatingly smelly corridors as if he were in his own living room. He knew every corner, every type of business, every commodity that moved within its confines. For him, nothing was forbidden, nothing too dirty, nothing that wasn't for sale.

One cold, foggy, full-moon night, he entered accompanied only by two of his most loyal and dangerous men, dressed all in black, fine gold chains gleaming against the dark fabric, tattoos peeking out from his neck, and a gaze that made anyone who crossed his path immediately lower their head. He was there to personally inspect a new shipment of weapons and see what new arrivals had come in that week; he always liked to be in the know, and from time to time, he liked to make his own selections.

"The new batch is already inside, boss," one of the men informed him, his voice low and respectful. "The foreman says this time it's the best he's ever brought."

Jay smiled sideways, a pretty, dangerous smile that didn't even come close to his eyes.

"They always say the same thing," he replied in a husky, relaxed voice, but full of authority. "But anyway... let's see."

Everyone who knew the name Jay Park spoke of him with the same mixture of respect, admiration, and sheer terror: he gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, and he doesn't care who he has to pay or how much he has to destroy to get it. At thirty-two, he was the most famous, feared, and powerful drug trafficker on the entire continent. He had built his empire on blood, money, and bottomless ruthlessness: he trafficked tons of the most dangerous drugs across oceans, moved shipments of weapons of war capable of arming armies, and without remorse or shame, actively participated in human trafficking. For Jay, everything had a price. Absolutely everything. Anyone who got in his way disappeared without a trace: he was a cold-blooded killer who shot or gave the order to kill with the same nonchalance with which others ask for a glass of water.

No one said no to him. No one dared. He had accounts with sums that even the banks could barely comprehend, mansions around the world, fleets of cars and planes, hundreds of men ready to kill or be killed at his command, and a reputation as solid as it was ruthless: what Jay Park wants, Jay Park gets. Even women were just another commodity to him, a whim, a possession: models, singers, politicians' wives, prostitutes… with just a point, they became his. They all ended up giving in, out of fear, for money, or both. He was used to always winning, to controlling everything, to nothing slipping through his fingers.

The black market was nothing new to him: it was his territory. While others spoke of it with disgust or dread, Jay roamed its dark, damp, and nauseatingly smelly corridors as if he were in his own living room. He knew every corner, every business, every type of merchandise that circulated. For him, nothing was forbidden, nothing was too dirty, nothing was off-limits.

One night, with a waning moon, cold and foggy, he entered accompanied only by two of his most loyal men.