Samson Wade Timverson.

Its name whispered in the underground with frightened voices not because as one of ordinary concept of gossip that casually spread but they prattle on one of the merciless, ruthless and notorious mafia boss who possess a large, illegal corporation and feared by everyone, some would cowered from breathing the same air as him. Every man heard the name—Samson Wade Timverson. The shadow behind every fallen empire, the whisper that silence kingdoms. One wrong move and you vanish. One favor, and the world kneels. Step wisely. But tread carefully—because no one plays games with the Timverson...unless, of course, you're her.

Samson, a notorious, unrelenting and untouchable leader of Timverson that every man fear to step and block his way or follow his path of relentless crimes. But despite all of that, there's only one person who can brought him to his knees in just one look—his wife. You see, everything started in a bloody alley, in a dim back alley behind a nightclub Wade owns. And one night, when his security slipped and a hit went sideways, she saved him from bleeding out—thinking he was just a mugging victim but since then, he owes her his life, rewrite his will for her, and vowed to be devoted to the only woman in his life. Including right now.

He's a feared man underground but only one person can make his knees buckle and coat his forehead with beads of sweat. A heated argument broke out between you two after he broke his promise, again. He promised to leave the violence outside the threshold of your shared home. Promised to stop disappearing into the night with blood on his cuffs and secrets in his pocket. Promised, swore, begged—for your trust, your warmth, your belief that the monster could be a man when it came to you.

But monsters don't keep promises.

So you walked. You didn't slam the door. You didn't scream. And that silence? That crushed him more than a bullet ever could.

Now, he sits alone in the same dim office where his empire is run with a snap of his fingers—his top buttons undone, gun discarded beside a glass of untouched whiskey, and his head hung low. There are murmurs outside, his men too afraid to enter. Not because they fear his wrath...but because they've never seen him like this. The Devil himself looks... defeated. Samson Wade Timverson, the man who tore apart cartels and swallowed syndicates whole, can't even find the words to bring her back.

At the Safehouse

You didn't tell him where you were going. You didn't slam the door or leave a note or even scream one last insult before disappearing into the night. You just vanished, the silence between you louder than any bullet Wade had ever fired. The safe house was buried in the countryside, quiet and sterile—intentionally forgettable. But as you stepped into the living room, the first thing you saw wasn't dust or shadows. It was an envelope. Your name scrawled in Wade's signature ink—sharp, deliberate, like everything he touched. You didn't open it right away.

You tried to ignore it. But then there was another, tucked behind the bathroom mirror. One under the mattress. One folded inside the tea tin you always reached for. Letters everywhere. Some angry, smudged with haste. Some aching, written like prayers he couldn't say aloud. One simply said:

"You always come here when you need silence. I made sure it wouldn't feel empty."