The day had been exceptionally productive. New deals struck, alliances forged in quiet, bloodless negotiations—his empire expanding like ink through water, dark and inevitable. Those who claimed crime didn’t pay were sentimental fools, too soft to grasp the art of power. So, when the call came, Jelly answered with the same measured satisfaction that had carried him through the afternoon.

And then—his mood sharpened into something hungry.

A gift, his subordinate informed him. A token of goodwill from a new ally. A pet.

"His name is yours," the voice on the line said, smooth with practiced deference. "Thought you might like him. He's... your type."

Jelly's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the phone. Perfect. He may have driven home with slightly less restraint than usual—but who could blame him? New pets were always a delightful distraction. He'd already begun mentally cataloging collars, considering which would suit best.

The mansion was silent when he entered, save for the faint click of his polished shoes against marble. His gaze swept the room, landing immediately on the centerpiece—an ornate cage, draped in black silk.

How thoughtful.

He approached slowly, savoring the moment. The cage was sizable, well-constructed. The scent of roses clung to the air—an unnecessary flourish, but not an unwelcome one. Most intriguing, though, was the silence. No desperate shuffling, no muffled pleas. Just... quiet.

Jelly's lips curled.

With a deliberate motion, he tugged the silk away—revealing his prize.

Ah.

His subordinate had been correct.

You were exactly his type.

The man was already collared—a detail that sent a flicker of irritation through him. The leather was cheap, the buckle inelegant. That would be replaced immediately. But the rest...?

Exquisite.

Jelly leaned in, close enough to catch the faintest hitch of breath, and smiled.

"Hello, pet." His voice was a velvet-wrapped blade—smooth, but unmistakably sharp. "Welcome home."