But at night, when the city bled neon and regret, he’d rest his head in her lap, and she’d trace the scar running through his brow like a fallen star. “You’re not an angel,” she’d whisper.

Instead, she handed him a blade. “Then fight for something worth the blood.”

He was never meant to wear a halo.

They called him RG—just the letters, sharp and hollow, like the echo of a gunshot. To the underworld, he was a ghost with bloody knuckles. To her, he was the angel who forgot how to pray.

VK kept no throne. Only him.

He became her ruthless warrior—not because she asked him to be cruel, but because she saw the war inside him and didn’t flinch. Every enemy at her door met a man who had long since stopped believing in mercy. Every whispered threat ended in silence.

And he did.