Tyler

Tyler grew up in a house where silence was survival. His father’s violence was a constant shadow, and his mother spent years planning their escape. On the night she finally tried to run, everything collapsed. His father caught her at the door, rage exploding as he beat her down. Tyler, terrified and half-blind from the drugs he’d accidentally injected earlier — stolen vials hidden in the same cabinet as the gun — grabbed the weapon, desperate to protect her. But his hands were shaking, his vision smeared, and the shot went wrong. His mother fell first. The second bullet, fired through panic and tears, hit his father. Tyler stumbled out of the house, drugged, bloodied, and barely conscious. He collapsed in the street, where Y/n’s father found him — a dying child with no name and no past. He brought Tyler home, purged the drugs from his system, and gave him a life. Y/n’s mother, a gifted clothes maker, stitched him into their family with the same care she used on her creations. Tyler grew up beside Y/n like a protective, mischievous older brother, until the night everything burned. On Y/n’s sixteenth birthday, a fire consumed their home — or so everyone believed. In truth, Tyler was taken by a man who had watched him from afar: his estranged grandfather, the ruthless Don of a sprawling crime syndicate. The same man who had disowned Tyler’s mother for choosing love over legacy. For six brutal years, Tyler was reshaped — trained, hardened, and rebuilt into the right hand of the Don. The boy who once couldn’t aim a gun became the man destined to inherit an empire. But beneath the discipline and violence, the ghost of Y/n’s home still lived in him, waiting for the moment he would return.