"Fix your work now—Master Azrael is coming," our supervisor ordered, and I could hear the nervousness in her voice.
Master Azrael—the owner of the bar we work at. I've been working here for a few months now, but I haven't even seen a glimpse of him. I had no idea what he looked like or what kind of man he was, but according to the stories of my coworkers... Master Azrael was not an ordinary man.
They said he was cruel. Intimidating. Quiet but sharp. The kind of man who, even in silence, carried a presence strong enough to bring down an entire building with just a command.
So now, as everyone started cleaning and fixing the place, I couldn't help but feel anxious. Because if what they say is true, we were about to meet the one person you don't ever want to make a mistake in front of—not even once.
The bar started to fill with tension. My coworkers, who usually joked around, were now overly busy—too busy. The casual chatter was replaced with nervous glances toward the door. I froze where I stood—I wasn't sure if it was out of fear, or just not knowing what to expect.
Then, the bar door suddenly opened. Everyone turned their heads.
A man walked in, followed closely by men in black suits—I assumed they were his bodyguards.
He was Master Azrael.
He wore a black suit that fit perfectly on his lean, commanding figure. His face was partially covered by a black half-mask, concealing the area from his forehead to his eyes, but leaving his nose and sharp jawline exposed. His eyes—cold, sharp, and piercing—seemed to see right through you, even if you hadn't said a word.
He walked slowly, silently, yet each step carried undeniable weight. He didn't need to threaten anyone for you to feel that he could crush you—easily, and without remorse.
We all bowed our heads. I don't know if it was voluntary, or purely out of fear.
But me—I couldn't help but sneak a glance.
And that was when I saw him clearly for the first time.
His presence was like a shadow you couldn't escape. His eyes scanned each of us—assessing, as if deciding who was worthy to stay.
Then suddenly, his gaze stopped on me.
My hands clenched into fists. I didn't know why, but just one look from him felt like it drained all the strength from my body.
"Why… why is he staring at me?"
Ms. Liza, our supervisor, immediately stepped forward when she noticed he was looking in my direction.
"Master," she said politely but with visible nervousness, "this is Sienna… she's new. She's only been working here for almost three months."
I swallowed hard. The air around us suddenly felt colder, and each second of silence was a ticking bomb in my chest.
"Sienna, show some respect," Ms. Liza whispered to me—barely audible, but with a tremble in her voice.
My eyes widened, and I quickly bowed, knees trembling.
"M-Master Azrael… good evening, sir…" My voice came out in a whisper, trying to hold myself steady under his chilling gaze.
He was silent for a moment.
But every second felt like an hour.
Then, I heard his deep, cold voice—
"Hmmm... what's good in this evening, tell me?"
It wasn't a question that required an answer—it was a test.
He walked closer, and I felt the weight of his presence intensify.
He looked me up and down.
And I still couldn't move. I was frozen—unable to breathe.
Underneath that half-mask and his icy gaze, I couldn't understand why he chose to focus on me.
"Liza, I want her in my VIP room."
He said it coldly, firmly—no room for negotiation. A command, not a request.
Ms. Liza gasped, and even the rest of the staff looked shocked. I, on the other hand, froze. Goosebumps crawled all over me. My knees nearly gave out.
Before I could say a word, Master Azrael had already turned around, walking away in silence, followed by his two emotionless, suit-clad bodyguards.
The room went quiet. No one moved. We were all stunned.
Me? I remained where I stood, still trembling and unsure of what to do.
Then I heard Ms. Liza's voice again—barely a whisper, shaking—
"S-Sienna… go. Don't make him wait."
The VIP room was quiet. The lights were dimmed.
It was just him—and me.
Master Azrael sat on a leather sofa that looked more like a throne. He leaned slightly back, one arm resting on the armrest, the other holding a glass of liquor.
He didn't speak.
He just stared at me—
Eyes sharp enough to cut through silence and even courage.
But even if I was afraid… I refused to stay silent.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Tightened my grip on the hem of my uniform, and spoke, though my voice trembled.
"S-Sir… I'm just a waitress here… I'm not for sale," I said softly but firmly, forcing myself to meet his gaze, even though every cell in my body wanted to drop to the floor.
Silence.
Then, slowly, his lips moved. He smiled.
"And who said I needed one?" he replied coldly and slowly.
He stood from his seat—I took a step back.
"If I wanted a body, I could buy one in seconds."
"But you…" he paused in front of me. Now he was close—so close I had to look up to meet his eyes.
"I want to know why a simple waitress like you… had the nerve to look into my eyes."
I swallowed hard. I didn't know if it was fear—or the strange tension I had never experienced before.
I didn't know why I couldn't move.
But I knew one thing—this wasn't just another night…
And he wasn't just any man.
He slightly nodded, and for the first time… he smiled.
Not wide. Not joyful. Just a subtle, nearly invisible curve of his lips—
"Interesting…" he murmured, like he was talking to himself—but made sure I heard it.
My brows furrowed. "W-What do you mean by that?"
He stepped away, walking around me slowly, stopping beside me. I couldn't see him—but I could feel the weight of his presence behind me.
"You were trembling earlier… your voice was shaking. Your knees were weak."
His voice dropped—low and deliberate.
"And yet, you still spoke."
He stepped back in front of me. Now even closer.
"Most women in this room would've begged to be chosen," he continued, "and yet here you are, standing your ground… telling me what you are not."
He tilted his head slightly, still holding the glass of liquor he hadn't even tasted.
"Tell me, Sienna…" he whispered my name for the first time, "is that fear I see… or pride?"
I don't know where I got the courage, but in the middle of my fear, I looked straight into his eyes—even if I was still shaking inside.
"Maybe both," I said.
One second. Two. Time seemed to stop.
Then a deeper smile spread across his lips.
"Now you really caught my attention."
He said, then finally took a sip from his glass—his gaze still locked on me.
I couldn't calm down the entire night. His cold voice echoed in my head… that gaze that seemed to undress me without saying a word. Azrael Damon Sevirino.
In my fear and curiosity to know who he really was, I opened my phone and searched him on Chrome.
"Azrael Damon Sevirino, 32. Business tycoon. CEO. Suspected mafia leader."
My fingers froze as I read through the information about him. Owner of various high-end bars, nightclubs, and buildings I never imagined belonged to a single man. Whether legal or illegal—he owns everything and everyone.
I saw a headline:
"The Untouchable King of the Underground."
He had been investigated before, but no one ever succeeded. Witnesses? Disappeared. Cases? Dismissed like they meant nothing.
But that's not what unsettled me the most. There were pictures of him in the articles—tall, always in an all-black suit, cold eyes yet captivating. He looked terrifying with the mask, but… why was there something magnetic about him that I couldn't explain?
Dark. Dangerous. Irresistibly powerful.
I read more—about his brutality with enemies, his emotionless decisions, and how just one look from him could make you feel like there was no escape.
Azrael Damon Sevirino.
Even his name was enough to make anyone tremble.
At 6'2, there was no way to miss his presence—it swallowed everything in its path. From head to toe, it was like the gods carved him by hand—impeccable posture, built frame, every movement deliberate. A simple earring on his left ear seemed to hint at a rebellious streak inside a man raised in discipline—and violence.
He was handsome in a maddening way—not just in looks but in aura. Every angle hinted at mystery behind those cold, unforgiving eyes. Just one look from him felt like a chain tightening around your neck, dragging you in whether you liked it or not.
Used to blood. Used to screams.
The Mafia Lord of the Sevirino Syndicate, raised in the shadows of street wars. In a world where law means kill first or be killed—he was king. Silent, but deadly. Gentleman in appearance, monster in the dark.
In a world ruled by fear, he was the very reason enemies prayed to survive the night.