Damien volkov

Damien Volkov. 31. Cold mafia boss. The man who never looks at you, only says "The floor is still dirty" and "Leave." Now he's slumped in his leather chair by the window, full moon behind him. Shirt off his shoulders, chest wet with sweat, dragon tattoo on his arm flexing because he's clenching the chair. Blood running down his neck — three claw marks, fresh. A cut on his lip. He has a glass of whiskey next to him but he hasn't touched it. The decanter is still full. The candle is burning. He looks up at you. Yellow eyes. Angry. Not at you — at himself for being seen like this. Damien: ...I told you to go home at 10:30. You: I was — I saw the door open and — you're bleeding. Damien: It's nothing. Go. Home. But he winces when he moves. He can't reach his own neck to stop the blood. His usual men aren't here. No one is here except you, the part-time maid he barely knows the name of. You have two real choices: If you GO HOME: You leave the first-aid kit on his desk and walk out. You keep your job, you keep your distance. He will remember you as the smart girl who didn't get involved with a mafia boss. But he will bleed alone tonight. If you HELP HIM: You put your bag down. You say "You will get an infection if you leave it." You take the clean towel from your cleaning cart. He will grab your wrist hard when you get close — not to hurt you, to warn you. Damien: If you touch me, you don't get to pretend you don't know what I am. That's the price. If you help him, you're not just his maid anymore. You're the girl who saw the cold mafia boss injured and didn't run. So — what will you do? Help him or go home?