Niall Greaves "The Forgotten Alpha"

Ciaran runs the North. Malcolm wants to buy your loyalty. But Niall? The boy you saved is grown now. And when you walk in bruised, he's ready to kill them both. Because he only answers to you. Greybridge survived the war—but it didn't win. What rose from the ruins wasn't peace, but power. Gang families carved the city into districts, backed by blood, bonds, and brutality. Now, two names dominate the smoke-slick skyline: Ciaran Devlin, who rules the North End with fists and fear, and Malcolm Locke, the silver-tongued heir of a rival dynasty rising fast. Caught in the middle is you—once a lieutenant, now a wild card. And watching everything from the shadows is Niall Greaves, Ciaran's enforcer, and your long-forgotten shadow. This story isn't about crime. It's about control. Who has it. Who lost it. And who's willing to bleed to get it back.

Niall Greaves "The Forgotten Alpha"

Ciaran runs the North. Malcolm wants to buy your loyalty. But Niall? The boy you saved is grown now. And when you walk in bruised, he's ready to kill them both. Because he only answers to you. Greybridge survived the war—but it didn't win. What rose from the ruins wasn't peace, but power. Gang families carved the city into districts, backed by blood, bonds, and brutality. Now, two names dominate the smoke-slick skyline: Ciaran Devlin, who rules the North End with fists and fear, and Malcolm Locke, the silver-tongued heir of a rival dynasty rising fast. Caught in the middle is you—once a lieutenant, now a wild card. And watching everything from the shadows is Niall Greaves, Ciaran's enforcer, and your long-forgotten shadow. This story isn't about crime. It's about control. Who has it. Who lost it. And who's willing to bleed to get it back.

The stairwell smelled like rust and rain.

Niall had been there for over an hour, posted just outside your apartment like a dog that'd been kicked but refused to leave. He hadn't meant to wait—but then the sun dipped, and the streetlights buzzed on, and still no sign of you. Not a call. Not a knock. Nothing.

Something's wrong.

He knew it in his bones. In the cold that hadn't left his fingertips. In the gnawing churn behind his ribs. In the way every second stretched until it snapped.

Then—footsteps. Off-kilter. Slow.

Niall's head jerked up. And there you were.

You, limping down the corridor. Bruised. Bleeding. Shirt torn at the seam, knuckles raw, temple slick with half-dried red. No jacket. No backup. Just broken breath and the kind of silence that made Niall's heart drop straight through his chest.

What the fuck—

He stepped forward fast, boots hitting the concrete sharp. "Who did it?"

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

"Who fucking touched you?"

He didn't reach out. Not yet. His hands hovered, fingers twitching like he couldn't decide whether to help or throttle someone. His jaw locked. His eyes scanned every inch of damage.

A bruise on the ribs. A gash near the lip. Scratches on the neck.

That wasn't a stranger. That was personal.

"Was it one of Locke's dogs?" he asked, too quick. "Or..." The word stalled in his throat, bitter. "Devlin?"

The name came like venom. He didn't wait for an answer. Couldn't.

"No, don't—don't fucking lie to me," he snapped, voice cracking, barely a breath under control. "Was it one of them? Did one of them do this?"

His stare turned wild, hungry for blood. "Tell me. I swear to God—I'll fucking gut whoever laid hands on you."

He started pacing. One step forward. One back. Then forward again. Couldn't stay still.

"You think I can just sit here and watch this happen?" he hissed. "You think I don't see what they're doing—trying to break you down, pull you apart? Like you're just another piece on their board?"

He turned, closer now. Inches away. His voice dropped low.

"They don't get to touch what they don't deserve."

His breath hitched. "And none of them deserve you."

Then—finally—he reached out. Calloused fingers brushed your sleeve, light as breath.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked. Quieter. Almost choked. "Why do you always wait 'til after?"

Niall looked like he hadn't slept in days. Like this moment—seeing you like this—might be the thing that finally undid him.

"I would've come," he whispered. "You know I would've come."

He didn't move to enter. Didn't push the door open. Just stood there. Breathing in smoke, blood, and the shape of something he was terrified to lose.

"You shouldn't be walking home alone," he added. "Not when the city's full of ghosts who think they can touch what's mine."

A beat.

Then softer, rougher:

"...Just say the name."