The air that morning shimmered with the scent of rising bread. Warm loaves lined the counter, each one brushed with butter until their golden crusts gleamed under the window light. The bell of the little bakery door kept ringing as townsfolk came and went, greeting the Hale family who had run the shop for two generations.

And tucked in the corner, with his short legs dangling above the floor and his arms wrapped tight around a worn teddy bear, sat Eirian Hale.

He was not like the other young men his age who walked confidently through town, carrying books or chatting about futures and sweethearts. Eirian lived gently, like glass too delicate for strong winds. His parents kept him close—most hours spent either here in the bakery or in their small house upstairs.

But Eirian never complained. His world was small, yet bright with his toys, dolls, little stories he hummed under his breath, and the constant kindness of his parents.

That morning, Eirian’s gaze was fixed outside the window. He had pressed his cheek against the glass a moment earlier, leaving a faint foggy print as he whispered to Mr. Honey, his teddy bear.

“Papa said strawberry today,” he confided, voice soft, syllables rounded like a child’s cuddle. “Strawberry jelly. Sweet… sweet red.” He giggled brightly and hugged the bear against his chest. “We’ll eat together, you and me. Promise.”

The lively bustle of the bakery muted around him, like a painted background to his small bubble. Yet the bell above the door chimed again, and this time, it did not return to silence.

Because the man who entered wasn’t a familiar face.

The conversation of two women buying bread hushed into murmurs, then dimmed completely. The clink of coins seemed unusually heavy as the cashier accepted them; there was a sharpness in the air Eirian couldn’t name but felt, like the way clouds grew still before thunder.

Eirian turned his head toward the door.

The man stood framed against the midmorning sun.

He was tall—no, tall didn’t capture it. The ceiling lamp light bent against his shoulders. Dressed in a tailored black suit, he seemed like a jagged piece of night that had cut into the bakery’s warm daylight. His hair was dark, short, slicked neatly back; his stride was deliberate in a way that made everyone step out of his way without thinking.

But it was his eyes.

Crimson red, glowing faintly as if something inside them smoldered. They swept the bakery, skipping past loaves and customers and shelves. And then—

They stopped.

On him.

On the porcelain boy with snowy hair and the small bear folded close to his heart.

Eirian blinked. His silver irises widened, and for a moment he forgot about Mr. Honey; forgot he was supposed to feel shy when strangers stared. Something about those sharp red eyes reminded him of a storybook monster his mother once read to him, of dragons with scales and fire in their throats.

Only—

Eirian didn’t feel frightened.

He felt… sparkled, in his own innocent way.

“…Dragon eyes,” he whispered, clutching his bear tighter.

On the other side of the room, Damian Vorensky—King of Mafia territories stretching across three countries, ruthless hand of the underworld—had stilled. His men outside waited in cars, weapons sleeping under coats, but inside the bakery Damian moved not an inch.

Usually, he did not waste time. When he wanted something, when he wanted someone gone, it was decided, carried out, buried in silence. That was power—speed.

But standing there, his crimson gaze locked on a small creature with white hair falling across his delicate eyes, Damian felt a different kind of certainty.

Not the rush of orders met or enemies destroyed.

Something deeper. Something violent in its tenderness.

Need.

For once, he didn’t care that there were witnesses. Didn’t care that his reputation wrapped him like shadows. All he could think—like a branding flame—was:

Mine.

Eirian tilted his head, blinking owlishly. The man in black was staring, and there was a weight to it—too heavy for most boys. But Eirian’s mind was gentle, too young to name intimidation, so what he said next made Damian’s red gaze deepen.

“You’re… tall.”

That was it. A blink, a pout of thought, and then his soft voice colored with a childlike awe. “…Like Mister Tower. My toy tower at home.”

His mother from behind the counter flushed in embarrassment. “Eirian—honey, don’t—”

But Damian didn’t smirk the way men did when teased by children. He didn’t dismiss it.

He accepted it.

The monster King of the underworld took two steps forward, and the floorboards creaked softly beneath his weight. His voice when he spoke was low, rich, resonant enough to rumble across the shelves.

“What’s your name?”

Eirian hugged Mr. Honey close, fluster suddenly—because this tall stranger with dragon eyes was speaking to him, only him. His lips pressed together shyly before the words stumbled out:

“E-Eirian.”

The syllables landed softly in the thickened air.

Damian’s jaw tightened. Even the boy’s name was fragile—like spun sugar that would dissolve if handled roughly.

“Eirian…” he repeated, tasting it in his mouth like a secret vow.

Scene break, bakery atmosphere:

The mother looked up alarmed, recognizing something strange in the man’s gaze. She rushed to the counter. “Sir, you—what would you like to purchase? Bread? Sweets?”

But Damian didn’t answer her at first. His eyes hadn’t left the boy of porcelain, clutching a threadbare teddy bear as if it was the universe of his comfort.

Finally, slowly, Damian turned his head to the side—just enough to appease politeness. His gaze cut like a blade in comparison to his soft gaze toward Eirian.

“…Strawberry jam.”

Eirian gasped, delighted, his small body jolting in the chair. “Papa’s jelly! Papa’s bringing new strawberry today!” He squealed toward his bear, bouncing in excitement. “See, Mr. Honey? Even the dragon wants strawberry!”

The bakery woman’s face paled at her son’s burst, but Damian only watched, burning the image deep into his memory: pale boy, arms small around a teddy, joy unfiltered, smiling at him as if he hadn’t killed men in these very streets.

Mine. He repeated silently, pressing the thought like iron into his blood.

And so began the story.

The Porcelain Boy met the Red-Eyed King.

Neither the bakery walls, nor the gentle world his parents built, would keep him safe much longer.

(MC)Name: Eirian Hale

Age: 20 (mental development around 5)

Appearance: Purely white skin, hair, and eyelashes; pale irises with a hint of silver. He appears almost doll-like, small framed, fragile, and childlike.

Personality: Sweet, naive, very attached to his teddy bear ("Mr. Honey"). He speaks simply, doesn’t fully understand adult concepts, but feels love deeply. Protected by his parents.

Background: Lived a sheltered life because of his condition. His parents own a small bakery.

(ML) Name: Damian Vorensky

Age: 30

Identity: Cold, dangerous Mafia King feared across the underworld.

Appearance: Tall, muscular, intimidating. Crimson red eyes, sharp jawline, black ink tattoos on his hands and chest. Twice Eirian’s size.

Personality: Dominating, possessive, obsessive when he sets his eyes on something—or someone. He transforms into a soft, almost worshipping man only for Eirian.

Motivation: The moment he saw Eirian, he fell into obsessive "first-sight love," deciding only he deserves this "angelic" boy.

Night had long since fallen over the city, and with it came the reign of shadows. Lights from skyscrapers flickered like watchful eyes, neon painting the black streets in restless color. Somewhere deep beneath this restless skin, in an underground chamber lined with marble and bulletproof glass, men were kneeling before one man seated on the throne of crime.

Damian Vorensky.

The Pakhan. The King.

Red wine glimmered in his crystal glass, untouched. The room smelled faintly of smoke and iron from the weapons lined in gold-rimmed cases along the wall. And yet, instead of savoring his newest victory—the silencing of a rival clan—Damian sat in silence, jaw taut, mind far away.

His men knew not to interrupt. The last who had dared to speak out of turn now filled concrete at the bottom of the river.

Still, the silence was not absence. It was fever. Something—someone—had set flame to their King’s gaze since morning.

Finally, Damian’s right-hand, Pavel, shifted from where he stood beside the table. His gravel voice tested the air carefully.

“My Lord… The Sychenko traitors are already taken care of. What are your orders for tomorrow’s shipment…?”

No answer. Not at first.

Damian’s crimson gaze—the gaze that broke governments and made men kneel—was staring into the rim of his glass as if it held not wine but the memory of delicate silver eyes.

His hand flexed against the glass. Not around a gun. Not around a knife.

But around a fragile imagination of snowy hair soft beneath his palm.

“…He smiled,” Damian murmured finally, his lips curved in something sharp and slow.

Pavel blinked, confused, before clearing his throat. “…Who, my Lord?”

Damian’s eyes cut sideways, glowing like blade edges under firelight. His tone was low, carrying no explanation, as if the name itself was too sacred to share. “An angel.”

Pavel stiffened but wisely dropped his gaze, nodding once. It was dangerous to question what his King meant by such things.

Blood still stained Damian’s shirt from the earlier execution. It dried into the weave of silk, marking him as monster, yet his thoughts were not of the screams that echoed underground. Not of the desperate clawing by men begging for lives.

No. His memory had pressed into him the image of a boy pressed against a bakery window, clutching a stuffed bear so old its seams split. The boy had spoken to him—to him, the most feared man in the city—with such guileless awe: You’re tall… like Mister Tower.

The world had always bent under Damian’s name, feared his footsteps, trembled when his crimson gaze swept over them. But that boy—Eirian—looked at him like a storybook giant, not a monster.

Damian could recall the breathless lilt of his name when the boy had spoken it aloud. “E-Eirian,” he’d said, cheeks flushed, hugging his teddy closer. A sound so sweet it dug deep inside Damian like a fatal bullet.

He leaned back in his seat now, closing his eyes. That one word replayed, heartbeat after heartbeat.

From that night forward, the Mafia King began to stalk.

The black car waited outside the bakery the next morning. He did not enter, not again, not so soon. It was enough to watch.

Through tinted windows, Damian sat, every inch of his sharp frame hidden in shadow, his crimson eyes glowing faintly under the dash light. He watched as the porcelain boy came to the bakery window and pressed his cheek against the glass, as he often did, holding his toy bear, tapping his legs in a rhythm only he understood.

He counted every smile that bloomed across the small lips. Every time the boy’s father returned carrying flour, bending to kiss his son’s head gently. Every time his mother smoothed down his white hair as though afraid it might scatter like snow.

Damian studied the warmth of a world that was not his. A warm world around Eirian.

Each time Eirian smiled, Damian’s possessiveness sharpened like a blade—because how dare the rest of the world look upon him, even vaguely? How dare the sunlight itself kiss his ivory skin, when it belonged only to him?

That evening, Damian returned to the underworld not with satisfaction but with an ache so deep it unsettled his own rules.

At one of his safehouses, he dismissed his bodyguards and entered a private chamber. The room was stark; shelves filled with maps, firearms locked neatly, a table stained dark from whiskey rings.

But on that table sat something new.

A small, white porcelain doll. Fragile. Childlike. Its hair pale, its tiny face painted with innocent eyes.

Damian had instructed one of his men hours before: Find something that looks like him.

And now, Damian knelt—this vast shadow of a man—touching the doll with his broad scarred fingers as though it would shatter.

“This is wrong,” he whispered. Around him, the silence of his own empire held its breath. His jaw tightened. “He’s not a doll for the world to see. He’s not theirs to keep.”

The doll’s empty stare reflected only Damian’s obsession back at him.

Crimson eyes burned.

I will take him.

I will build him a world where nothing touches him but me.

Even his tears will belong to me.

That night, in the safety of his family’s home above the bakery, Eirian laughed at something simple—his father had brought him strawberry jelly as promised, spoon-feeding him with patient gentleness while his mother scolded playfully about “spoiling him too much.”

Eirian clapped his hands with sticky glee, beaming with joy.

In the darkness beyond, parked where no window could see, two men stood beside a silent car. One lit a cigarette to stay awake, the other shifted uneasily under the weight of orders from their Boss:

“Guard the bakery. Watch the boy. Report everything.”

The snowy-haired boy inside was unaware. He hugged Mr. Honey and fell asleep in the safety of parents who loved him—unaware of red eyes already weaving invisible chains around him.

The dragon had chosen.

The angel would not escape.

Morning rain glazed the bakery windows, soft drizzles dripping like tiny pearls down the glass. Inside, golden light warmed the shelves where sugared buns and candies glimmered under display cases.

Eirian sat at his usual corner seat, feet barely brushing the wooden stool’s rung. Mr. Honey dangled in his lap, ears worn thin from years of affection. Eirian hummed to himself, the melody uneven, childlike. His gaze flickered toward the rainbow jars stacked behind the counter—lollipops, lemon drops, little sugar cubes.

He pressed his chin against the teddy’s head with a dreamy sigh.

“Should we get the round candy today, Mr. Honey? Or the pink one that looks like Mama’s ribbon?”

Mr. Honey offered no reply, but Eirian’s silver eyes sparkled as though he had been answered.

Behind the counter, Mrs. Hale wiped trays while glancing back at her son. Her heart squeezed with tenderness and worry. At twenty, he should have been tall, independent, talking about school or work. Instead, he clutched toys, spoke in whispers to bears, face too pure for the cruelties beyond the door. She often feared what would happen if anyone unkind took notice.

That was when the bell chimed.

And a shadow darker than rain itself filled the bakery doorway.

Damian Vorensky entered.

The black coat he wore dripped faint water onto the doormat, the storm sliding off him like he was untouchable. He removed his leather gloves slowly, each finger deliberate, and then his gaze flicked upward.

At once, his eyes locked onto Eirian.

The boy froze for half a breath… then wriggled in delight against his chair. His silver eyes widened, and he tugged at Mr. Honey’s worn ear with excitement. “Mister Tower! Dragon eyes!” He beamed.

The words hit Damian like gunfire to the chest.

For days he had endured blood-soaked meetings, smoking silence, and impatient prowls outside the bakery window just to glimpse this angel again. Now those delicate lips called out to him with open shining adoration—as if no one had ever warned the boy to fear monsters.

A muscle jumped in Damian’s jaw, tightening around the hunger his possessive heart could not mask. He calls me dragon… The boy’s world had already welcomed him, given him a place inside his storybook kingdom.

Damian would make it real.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Hale’s cheerful voice wavered slightly, trying to mask unease. “How may I help you, sir?”

Damian walked forward. His body filled the tiny bakery, scarlet gaze heavy on nothing but the porcelain boy. But when he spoke, his voice was even, deep, velvet edged with command.

“…Candy.”

Mrs. Hale blinked. “C-Candy?”

He inclined his head faintly. His eyes flicked to the jars stacked behind her. “What’s sweet today?”

Eirian gasped, bouncing slightly where he sat. “Mama, he wants candy too! Just like me!”

His small joy made Damian’s lips twitch, the faintest curve, dangerous and soft at once. He shifted his stare back to the boy, lowering his voice as if the words were a vow spoken only for him.

“Which one do you like, angel?”

Eirian startled, cheeks tinted pale pink under his snowy hair. Nobody called him angel. Not even his parents—not like that, not so soft, like worship. He fiddled with Mr. Honey’s bow tie nervously before pointing to a jar stacked with rainbow lollipops.

“That one… round ones. Sweet.”

Damian’s gaze seared the jar into memory. “I’ll take them all,” he ordered. His tone allowed no refusal.

Mrs. Hale stiffened. “A-all of them?”

“Yes.” He pulled a crisp billfold from his coat and placed it on the counter with fingers that once pulled triggers as easily as breathing. Yet his stare was not on the money—it was fixed to the fragile boy clutching a bear, smiling at him without fear.

“Eirian,” Damian said suddenly, voice low, intimate. “Come here.”

Mrs. Hale’s face hardened, half moving toward her son. “He doesn’t—”

But Eirian had already slipped down from his chair, curious. His limbs were small, awkward, but he padded forward shyly, teddy tucked under an arm. He tilted his head up—up, up—until his gaze reached Damian’s crimson eyes. His expression glowed as though he looked at a story come alive.

Damian crouched down to his level. For the first time in years, the mafia king bent knees to anyone. He reached into the jar and pulled out a single lollipop, stripping the wrapper.

“Open your mouth,” he said gently.

Eirian blinked, then, trusting without hesitation, parted his lips. Damian slid the candy carefully onto his tongue, watching with almost fever devotion as those lips closed around sweetness.

The boy giggled as the taste hit—strawberry. His favorite. His teeth tapped lightly on the candy stick. “Mm! My dragon gave me strawberry!”

Damian’s ears rang with the word. My. My dragon.

Blood roared, both violent and tender in his veins. He wanted to destroy the world outside those walls for daring to exist. He wanted to wrap the boy in chains of silk and keep him locked where no one else could ever touch this sound, this smile.

Eirian clapped his hands with joy, sticky fingers smearing on Mr. Honey. “Now Mr. Honey wants one too!”

Damian actually chuckled—a low sound so foreign his men would never recognize it—before standing again, towering above the others. His voice dropped in command to Mrs. Hale.

“Wrap two dozen.”

Her hands trembled as she obeyed.

As Damian waited, his crimson gaze never left the boy who sucked happily at his lollipop. And for the first time, he did not bother to hide the truth in his expression: hunger, possessiveness, affection sharpened like a blade.

Mrs. Hale noticed. Her chest squeezed with dread. Something about this man’s eyes when they looked at her son was wrong. So wrong.

But Eirian laughed, oblivious, candy stick wiggling from his grin.

“Dragon’s candy is best,” he declared with finality.

And Damian smiled—smiled with the cold certainty that soon, very soon, this angel would be his alone.