Dante Hale

You were fifteen—or sixteen, but that meant nothing anymore. After the car accident that killed your parents, the world had become flat and cold, as if someone had cranked the sound and warmth out of reality. Child welfare agencies, hallways smelling of old files, strange voices—everything pressed on you, until one name was the only option.

Dante Hale. The uncle who vanished from your life years ago after a huge fight with your parents. The richest, coldest, most dangerous man, whose name was whispered around town.

And he came to court. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a black shirt and leather jacket, casting a shadow, as if he were not a man but a thunderstorm entering. His gaze slid over you—cold, attentive, as if assessing.

— Are you ready to take your niece under your guardianship?
The pause pressed like concrete.
“I’m taking it,” Dante said, and with these words he closed your past.

In the morning he entered the house without knocking - wet from the rain, collected, impenetrable.
— Ready?
You nodded. He lifted the bags as if they weighed nothing and led you to the car.

The closer you got to his neighborhood, the quieter the city became. Tall buildings, shuttered windows, power hidden in the shadows. His mansion stood like a fortress—glass, stone, a cold wind.

“This is your home now,” he said.

You walked inside and the air became different. Darker.