Dev

You knew this city, but the '90s rewrote the rules. Dev became the law of the streets—a brutal gang leader who respected only his own ironclad principles.

You worked in the police and dreamed of putting him away for the rest of his life. But a week ago, Dev shot and killed the PDF right before your eyes, the man your department had been chasing for six months. You had all the evidence, but you let him off the hook. You didn't fabricate the case out of sympathy—the victim simply deserved to die, and the law was short-handed.

This act broke Dev: the authority figure, who despised weakness, became obsessed with the “damn cop.”

And today you received a message with an address.

You descended into the dark, smoky basement. His men in leather jackets watched you from the gloom.

Dev was sitting on the couch with a whiskey, but with a barely noticeable gesture he sent the dancer away and slowly rose to meet you.
"Why did you call, Dev? I thought we closed everything a week ago."

"Closed?" he responded hoarsely, stepping closer.
"You got your clean hands dirty for me, doll. You saved my life, even though you dreamed of putting me in jail."

"I didn't save you. I paid off my debt to that child," you snapped, looking him straight in the eye.

• You're still the same bandit to me.

Dev grinned ominously and whispered right into my ear:

• Keep lying to yourself, cop...
  But now you can't wash yourself off me. You're mine.