Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

George hadn’t planned on ending the night with a gun pressed against the side of his head.

Not that he’d planned much of anything lately—job applications scattered like confetti, his CV ignored, landlords ignoring his calls, his entire life crumbling in a way that had stopped feeling dramatic and had started feeling numb. But still, this wasn’t how he imagined things would go. Not like this.

The gunman was shaking. Nervous. George could see it in the tremor running down the man’s arm, in the way his knuckles whitened around the grip. George wasn’t stupid—nervous men with guns were the most dangerous kind. He knew enough to keep his voice steady when he said, “Look, mate, this is a mistake—”

“Shut up,” the man hissed.

Behind them, someone laughed. A low, amused sound that cut through the tension like a blade.

George didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to. He’d heard that laugh before, though not directed at him, and every time it carried the same weight: power, authority, something darkly magnetic.

Max.

Max, who was sitting in a chair that didn’t belong to him but somehow looked like it did, one leg crossed lazily over the other, a bandage still peeking out from beneath the cuff of his shirt. Max, who was the reason George had been pulled into this mess in the first place.

“Do you really think,” Max said, his tone conversational, “that pointing a gun at him is going to get you what you want?”

The gun pressed harder against George’s temple. He resisted the urge to flinch.

“Maybe I don’t need what I want,” the man snapped back. “Maybe I just need leverage.”

Leverage. The word echoed in George’s head like a cruel joke. He wanted to laugh—because how could he, a broke, useless twenty-four-year-old with nothing to his name, be leverage for anything? And yet here he was, apparently valuable enough to threaten in front of one of the most dangerous men in the world.

“Leverage?” Max repeated, smiling now, like the word itself was amusing. “Do you know what happens to men who try to use him against me?”

George swallowed hard. He’d been asking himself the same question for weeks now—why him, why this, why had he ever thrown that damn can in the first place?

The gunman’s voice wavered. “He’s just—he’s just some bloke. I don’t care about him. But you—”

“You’re right,” Max interrupted smoothly. “He is just some bloke. He’s not a soldier, not one of mine, not even useful. Do you know what that means?”

George’s stomach dropped. He didn’t dare breathe.

“It means,” Max continued, voice dropping lower, quieter, “that the only reason he’s still alive is because I said so.”

The room went silent. The gunman shifted uneasily. George could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, faster and faster, because Max was telling the truth. And maybe that should’ve been reassuring, but all it did was remind him how fragile this all was—how easily it could change.

Max finally stood, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. His shoes clicked softly on the concrete floor as he approached. He moved with a predator’s ease, every step deliberate, calculated.

“Let him go,” Max said.

The gun didn’t move.

Max tilted his head, studying the man holding George like one might study an insect. “You’re making a mistake.”

George couldn’t see Max’s face now, but he could imagine it—the cool detachment, the eyes that didn’t quite reveal what they were thinking. The same look George had seen on him the night it all started, rain dripping from his hair, blood staining his shirt.

That night had been chaos, pure and simple. Gunshots echoing through narrow alley walls, the metallic tang of fear and adrenaline thick in the air. George had thought he was going to die, and then—by some reckless, stupid miracle—he hadn’t. He’d distracted them. He’d saved Max.

And now, weeks later, he was standing here because of it, because Max Verstappen didn’t forget things, least of all debts.

“I don’t make mistakes,” the gunman said.

Max’s smile sharpened. “You already did.”

The sound came fast. A single shot, deafening in the enclosed space. George flinched, stumbling as the weight behind him fell away, a body crumpling to the ground.

The silence afterward was worse than the gunfire.

George turned his head slowly. The man who’d been holding him was on the floor, blood blooming across his shirt. Max stood behind him, gun still raised, expression unreadable.

“You’re welcome,” Max said softly, like he was amused by George’s wide-eyed shock.

George opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Words refused to come. He wanted to say thank you, or maybe what the fuck, but all he managed was a choked noise that sounded nothing like either.

George stumbled back a step, chest heaving. “You—you didn’t have to—”

Max cut him off with a look, closing the distance until George had nowhere left to go. He reached out, brushing his knuckles along George’s jaw in a gesture that was both gentle and claiming.

“Do you understand now?” Max murmured. “You’re still alive because I said so. Because you’re mine.”

George’s breath caught. He should’ve been furious, should’ve shoved Max away, should’ve screamed that he wasn’t anyone’s possession. Instead he stood frozen, heart pounding, knowing with cold certainty that whatever had started that night in the rain had pulled him somewhere he couldn’t escape.

Max’s smile softened, though it never lost its edge. “When you’re with me, George… you’re already in too deep.”

George had no idea how he’d ended up here—blood on the floor, a gun in Max Verstappen’s hand, and the word mineechoing in his head. All he knew was that it had started weeks ago, on a night that smelled of rain and bad luck.

George had always thought life after university was supposed to feel like a beginning. A door opening, a whole world of possibilities waiting just beyond the threshold. Instead, all he’d found was closed doors—one after another, slammed in his face until he wasn’t sure if there had ever been a threshold at all.

Graduation had been nearly a year ago. His parents had been proud, his friends had been relieved, and George had been quietly terrified. He’d never been top of his class, but he’d worked hard. He thought that would be enough. It wasn’t.

The world didn’t care how many sleepless nights he’d spent finishing assignments or how much of himself he’d poured into those endless exams. What mattered, apparently, was experience he didn’t have and money he couldn’t afford to spend gaining it.

So instead of climbing some shiny new career ladder, George had been stuck in a dingy restaurant kitchen, working double shifts for a boss who seemed to despise him on principle.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it had been money—rent-paying, grocery-buying money. Until last week.

“You’re too slow,” his boss had barked after another twelve-hour shift. “Too distracted. Customers are complaining. I can’t have dead weight in my kitchen.”

It wasn’t true—George knew it wasn’t true—but that hadn’t mattered. His boss had been looking for an excuse, and George had been too tired to fight.

So now he was unemployed again, and the clock was ticking louder with each overdue rent notice that slid under his door. His landlord had stopped pretending to be patient. He wanted money, and George didn’t have any.

Today had been his last chance, or at least it had felt like it. The little bookstore on the corner, tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon, had been hiring. He’d imagined himself there—quiet days surrounded by shelves, a paycheck steady enough to breathe again.

He’d shown up early, hands clammy, nerves twisting in his stomach. The interviewer had been kind in that detached way that stung even more than cruelty. She’d smiled, nodded at his answers, jotted notes he wasn’t allowed to see. And at the end, with the same smile, she’d said the line he’d come to dread:

“We’ll be in touch.”

George had forced a polite grin, but inside, something cracked. He knew what that smile meant. He’d seen it too many times. She wasn’t going to call. Nobody ever did.

By the time he left the shop, the sky had darkened, heavy clouds pressing low. He’d shoved his useless CV deeper into his bag and walked aimlessly, not ready to face the four moldy walls of his flat, not ready to see the unpaid bills waiting on his kitchen counter.

The first drop of rain landed cold against his cheek. He ignored it. He was used to ignoring things.

But within minutes, drizzle turned into a steady pour, soaking into his hair, his jacket, seeping down into his shoes until his socks squelched with every step.

George sighed, tipping his head back toward the sky. “Of course,” he muttered bitterly, as though the universe might hear him and laugh.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking, rain pounding harder with every block. His clothes clung to him, heavy and cold, water dripping from his eyelashes. People hurried past with umbrellas, heads ducked, dry and shielded. George felt exposed, small, like the storm had chosen him specifically.

By the time the rain turned into sheets, blurring the streetlights into hazy smears of yellow, he knew he couldn’t keep walking in it. His flat wasn’t close enough, not with this weather, not when he could barely see two steps ahead.

He veered toward the nearest side street, hoping the narrow alley would cut some time off his route home and maybe offer a little shelter from the downpour.

The shift in sound was immediate—rain still pattered against metal fire escapes above him, but the walls muffled some of it, closing him in. The air smelled of wet concrete and rust.

George exhaled, dragging a hand over his dripping face. His hair stuck to his forehead, his jacket weighed twice as much as it should have, and his shoes squeaked with every miserable step.

All he wanted was to get home, peel off his soaked clothes, crawl into bed, and pretend tomorrow might be different.

He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag and started down the alley, telling himself it was only water, only another bad day, only another rejection.

He didn’t know yet that in a few more steps, everything was about to change.

The rain had eased slightly by the time George reached the halfway point of the alley, though water still dripped steadily from the rusted fire escapes above, puddles spreading wide across the uneven concrete. He kept his head down, telling himself if he just walked quickly enough, he could be home in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.

He was halfway through that thought when the sound split the night.

A gunshot.

Sharp, echoing, impossibly loud.

George froze where he stood, the sound reverberating through the narrow walls and rattling down into his chest. For a split second he thought he’d imagined it—his brain playing tricks in the rain. But then came the second sound: shouting, urgent and harsh, followed by the distinct crack of something heavy colliding with flesh.

His blood went cold.

The alley turned from shelter to trap in an instant. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, go back into the rain, pretend he hadn’t heard anything. But his body didn’t move. Curiosity—or maybe fear—rooted him to the spot.

Cautiously, he crept forward, pressed close to the wall, rain dripping down his neck. The air smelled different now, metallic, sharp, something that raised the hairs on the back of his arms.

And then he saw them.

A cluster of men at the far end of the alley, shadows shifting under the broken streetlight overhead. Four—no, five of them—surrounding a single figure in the middle.

The man in the center was dressed in black, shirt soaked through, darker still where blood poured from the hole in his stomach. He was doubled over, one hand clamped hard against the wound, the other hanging useless at his side. Blood streaked the wall behind him where he’d stumbled, and two other bodies lay crumpled nearby, lifeless, faces obscured by shadow.

George’s breath caught in his throat. His entire body screamed don’t look, don’t be seen, don’t get involved.

But he couldn’t look away.

The injured man—whoever he was—didn’t beg, didn’t plead. He stood straighter than he had any right to, blood still seeping between his fingers, eyes burning cold as he faced the men circling him. Even bleeding, even cornered, there was something dangerous about him. Something that made George’s skin prickle.

It didn’t matter. He was going to die.

George saw the decision before it happened: one of the men in the circle raised his gun, steady and deliberate, aiming directly at the injured man’s head.

And George moved.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. His body just lurched into action, his hand snatching up the nearest object he saw—a dented soda can abandoned on the ground—and hurling it with all the desperate strength he had.

The can clanged against the brick wall with a metallic crack, the sound startlingly loud in the narrow alley. Every head whipped toward the noise, guns lowering for a split second as they scanned the shadows.

George’s heart nearly burst out of his chest. He hadn’t expected it to work—hadn’t thought beyond the stupid instinct to do something. The guy was shot and outnumbered and George felt the urge to somehow- to somehow, just help him.

But it did work.

The men cursed, their leader barking something George couldn’t make out, and then—just like that—they scattered. Feet pounding against wet pavement, bodies melting into the rain-soaked streets, leaving as quickly as they’d come.

And George was left standing there.

The alley was quieter now, though not silent. The injured man was still there, slumped against the wall, breath ragged, blood running thick down his side. His hand pressed hard against the wound, slick with red.

George’s feet refused to move. His pulse roared in his ears. He’d just chased away armed men with a tin can, and now he was staring at someone who should have been dead but wasn’t.

The man lifted his head slightly, eyes finding George in the dim light.

For a moment, George thought he might collapse under that gaze. Even in pain, even pale and struggling to breathe, there was an intensity there that pinned him in place. It wasn’t a plea for help. It was something else. Recognition, maybe. A calculation.

George swallowed hard. His throat was dry, his voice caught somewhere he couldn’t reach. He should call for help. He should run. He should do anything except stand there like an idiot staring back.

But he didn’t move.

The man’s breathing came in harsh, uneven pulls, each one sounding like it might be his last. His shirt was ruined, black fabric soaked through, the blood spreading too fast for George to process. He pressed harder against the wound, grimacing, a low groan slipping out before he bit it back.

George’s hand tightened around the strap of his bag. He wasn’t brave, not really. He didn’t know the first thing about first aid, or gangs, or bleeding wounds. He wasn’t meant to be here at all.

And yet…

Something in him refused to leave.

He’d seen enough. He couldn’t just walk away and pretend it hadn’t happened.

So he stood there, drenched in rain, chest heaving, staring at the man bleeding out against the wall and wondering how the hell he was supposed to decide what to do next.

George’s legs were shaking. His brain screamed at him to run, to vanish back into the safety of the downpour, to let the night swallow the man on the ground because this was none of his business.

But his body betrayed him. His feet carried him forward, step by step, toward the crumpled figure leaning against the wall.

“Bloody hell,” George whispered under his breath.

The closer he got, the worse it was. The man wasn’t just injured—he was shredded. His black shirt clung to him, soaked through with a dark stain spreading wider every second. The blood smell was overwhelming, sharp and metallic in the damp air. His skin was pale, too pale, and his breaths came ragged and shallow.

George dropped to his knees without thinking. Rainwater pooled on the cracked pavement, soaking through his jeans, but he barely noticed.

“Don’t move,” he said quickly, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket. His hands shook, useless with adrenaline. “Just—just stay still. I’ve got you.”

The man’s eyes flicked open again, sharp even through the haze of pain. He studied George like he was some strange curiosity, gaze flicking from his dripping hair to his trembling hands.

And then, to George’s utter disbelief, he smirked.

“What are you doing, little angel?” His voice was low, rough, edged with exhaustion but still carrying something commanding. “You should be running.”

George’s throat tightened. The nickname settled strangely in his chest, warming him and scaring him all at once. He shook his head quickly, pulling off his sodden jacket.

“I’m not running,” George said, more firmly than he felt. He balled up the jacket, pressing it against the bleeding wound in the man’s stomach. “You’ll bleed out if I leave you. I—I can’t just walk away.”

The man hissed as pressure met flesh, his back arching slightly against the wall. His hand shot out, gripping George’s wrist—not hard enough to push him away, but enough to stop him.

“You don’t even know who I am,” he said, teeth clenched.

George swallowed. “Doesn’t matter.”

A beat of silence passed. The rain drummed overhead, steady and relentless. The man’s grip loosened slowly, his head falling back against the wall.

“Stupid angel,” he muttered, though his lips curved into something almost amused.

George ignored it, pressing harder with the jacket. His pulse was hammering so loudly he could barely hear himself think, but he forced his voice steady. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. We—we need to get you out of here. Do you think you can stand?”

The man’s eyes slid back to him, colder now, measuring. Then, with visible effort, he nodded once.

George shifted closer, slipping his arm under the man’s to brace him. The weight was staggering, his body straining under the sheer solidity of him. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t small. His muscles were solid and heavy, and George had to grit his teeth to keep them both upright.

“Come on,” George urged. “One, two, three—”

The man groaned as they moved, his blood-slicked hand clutching George’s shoulder for balance. They staggered together, awkward, George half-dragging, half-guiding him toward the mouth of the alley. Every step was agony for both of them—the man gritting his teeth, George’s arms screaming from the effort.

“Water,” the man rasped suddenly.

George blinked. “What?”

“Water.”

“Oh—right, yeah, I—” George fumbled in his bag, nearly dropping it in the puddle before pulling out a half-empty bottle he’d bought earlier. He unscrewed the cap with clumsy fingers and held it to the man’s lips.

He drank greedily, throat working, and George had to tilt the bottle carefully to keep from spilling it. When he pulled it away, the man exhaled heavily, a thin line of water running down his chin.

“Better?” George asked, breathless.

“Not dying yet.” The smirk flickered again.

George rolled his eyes despite himself. “Glad to hear it.”

The man leaned heavier into him as they moved, but George refused to let go. He adjusted his grip, ignoring how his own clothes were soaked now not just with rain but with blood. He’d never seen so much blood in his life. It should’ve made him sick. Instead, adrenaline carried him forward.

When they reached a slightly wider stretch of the alley, George helped him ease down onto an overturned crate. He crouched in front of him, jacket still pressed against his stomach wound.

“Okay,” George said, trying to sound calm. “I don’t—I don’t really know what I’m doing, but you need pressure. Just… hold this here. Please.”

The man’s eyes never left him.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“No kidding,” George muttered. “Some of us aren’t used to guns and gangs in dark alleys.”

Something in the man’s gaze shifted—softened, just for a heartbeat. Then he chuckled, low and hoarse. “Angel. You’ve got no idea what you’ve walked into.”

George pressed his lips together, then asked the question that had been clawing at him since the moment he saw him. “Why were they after you?”

“Because I make enemies,” the man said simply. His tone made it clear there’d be no elaboration.

George hesitated, then nodded once. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But… what’s your name?”

The man tilted his head, studying him as though the question itself was unusual. Then, slowly, he answered.

“Max.”

George blinked. “Just Max?”

“For now.”

George swallowed, nodding again. “Alright. Max. I’m George.”

“George,” Max repeated, like he was testing the weight of it. He smiled faintly, though his eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. “Doesn’t suit you.”

George frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You look like an angel dropped somewhere it doesn’t belong.” Max’s voice was a murmur now, soft and taunting all at once. “My little angel.”

George’s face burned despite the cold rain. “Stop calling me that.”

Max’s smile only widened, sharp even as he slumped weakly against the wall. “But it fits.”

George exhaled, frustrated, torn between rolling his eyes and worrying he was about to lose the man altogether. “Look, angel or not, I can’t carry you all the way to a hospital, and something tells me you don’t want me to. So what do I do? Tell me what to do.”

For the first time, Max’s expression shifted into something almost unreadable—curiosity mixed with calculation. “Why do you care, George? You don’t even know me.”

George’s throat tightened. He didn’t have an answer that made sense. He just knew that walking away hadn’t been an option. “Because you’re hurt,” he said finally. “Because you’re alive. Isn’t that enough?”

Max stared at him for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

“You’ll regret this,” he said softly, though there was no malice in it. “Helping me.”

George swallowed hard. “Maybe. But not tonight.”

For the first time since George had stumbled into the alley, Max laughed properly. It was quiet, low, but real.

And George realized, with a strange twist in his chest, that even half-dead and bleeding, Max was terrifyingly magnetic. Dangerous. Someone George should never have touched.

And yet, here they were.

Chapter Text

The rain swallowed everything.

George’s arms burned from holding Max upright, every muscle screaming, his lungs clawing for air. His trainers slipped on the wet pavement, his shoulders bowed under the impossible weight, but he refused to stop.

The man beside him—bleeding, heavy, terrifying in ways George couldn’t put words to—was fading. Each step made his head dip lower, his breath grow shorter. George could feel it against his neck: the slow, ragged pull of air, weaker with each moment.

“You’re not passing out on me,” George gritted through his teeth, adjusting his grip. “Not until I get you somewhere safe. You hear me?”

Max’s lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed closed. “Stubborn little angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” George hissed, tightening his arm around Max’s waist, ignoring the heat of blood soaking through his jacket.

Max chuckled weakly, the sound breaking into a groan. “Mine.”

George’s pulse stuttered. “You’re delirious.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

George’s hands shook as he pressed harder against the wound, but he forced his voice steady. “I don’t belong to you. We don’t even know each other.”

Max tilted his head, smirk widening faintly. “Names are just words. I already know enough. You didn’t run. That makes you mine.”

George had no answer. He just kept moving.

It took everything he had to guide Max out of the alley and across two blocks, rain soaking them to the bone. The city was quiet this time of night—only the occasional flicker of headlights in the distance, no one foolish enough to be out in the storm.

George knew the row of abandoned shops nearby. He’d passed them before on his endless job-hunting treks, a string of dusty windows boarded over, some spray-painted, most left to rot. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter.

When he finally spotted the broken door of what used to be a laundromat, relief crashed over him so hard he nearly dropped Max entirely.

“Come on,” George whispered, dragging him inside.

The door creaked on rusted hinges, the stale air damp and sour with mildew. George guided Max to the corner, lowering him carefully to the floor. His own body gave out immediately after; he collapsed beside him, chest heaving, arms trembling violently from the effort.

Max slumped back against the wall, head tilted, breath shallow. His eyes fluttered half-shut, only cracking open to find George.

“You…” Max rasped, voice hoarse. “You should’ve run.”

George shot him a glare, breathless. “Don’t start with me. I didn’t drag you through a storm for you to lecture me.”

Max’s lips curved, faint but undeniable. “Angel.”

George’s cheeks burned, but he forced his hands steady as he stripped off his soaked jacket and pressed it against the bleeding wound. Max hissed, eyes squeezing shut, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re bleeding way too much,” George muttered, panic bleeding through the words. “You need a hospital, real stitches—”

“No.” The word was sharp, sudden, a blade in the dark. Even half-conscious, his tone brooked no argument. “No hospitals.”

George wanted to scream. “Then what? Just bleed out here? Because if that’s the plan, it’s a shit one.”

Max opened his eyes again, heavy-lidded but steady. “Not with you here.”

George’s heart thudded unevenly. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re mine,” Max whispered, and then his head lolled back against the wall, breath slowing again.

George’s chest squeezed painfully. He didn’t know how long he sat there, pressing his ruined jacket against Max’s stomach, whispering desperate reassurances just to keep him from slipping under. Time blurred—the storm outside, the drip of water through the broken ceiling, the rasp of Max’s unsteady breaths.

“Stay awake,” George begged quietly. “Just—please. Stay awake.”

But Max was fading, and George was too weak, too ordinary, to stop it.

The sound of tires cutting through water made him freeze.

At first, he thought it was his imagination. Then came the slam of car doors, heavy footsteps splashing through puddles, voices barking low orders in the storm.

George’s heart hammered. Whoever these men were, they didn’t sound like paramedics.

The laundromat door burst open.

Three men stormed in, dark suits drenched with rain, weapons drawn and eyes sharp. They spread quickly, scanning the room, and their gazes locked instantly on Max.

“Boss!” one of them barked, rushing forward.

George startled back instinctively, still kneeling with his bloodied hands pressed against Max’s stomach.

Another man grabbed George by the collar, yanking him to his feet. “Who the hell is this?”

George choked on a panicked sound, eyes darting wildly. “I—I was just helping—”

“Let him go.”

The command cut through the chaos, sharp and calm.

The men stilled. The one gripping George turned, frowning, but loosened his hold.

A figure stepped forward from behind them. He was older than the others, maybe mid-thirties, with neatly cut hair plastered to his forehead from the rain. His suit was immaculate despite the weather, his expression steady and unreadable. A polished badge gleamed briefly under the flickering light.

Rupert Manwaring. That was the name engraved on it.

“He helped the boss,” Rupert said evenly. His eyes flicked to George, assessing, calm in a way that made George’s skin crawl. “He stays untouched.”

The man holding George muttered something under his breath but shoved him free. George stumbled back, rubbing at his throat.

“Take him,” Rupert ordered, nodding toward Max. Two of the men immediately crouched, carefully lifting their bleeding leader between them. Max stirred faintly at the movement, head rolling against one man’s shoulder, eyes half-opening.

George’s breath caught when Max’s gaze found him through the haze.

Even half-conscious, even nearly gone, the intensity was there—searing, possessive. His lips parted, voice barely audible.

“Angel…”

George’s stomach dropped. He almost stepped forward before catching himself, fingers twitching uselessly at his sides.

Rupert’s eyes flicked between them, something sharp glinting for just a second before smoothing back into calm neutrality. He turned to George.

“You should go.”

George blinked at him, throat dry. “Go?”

“You’ve done enough. More than anyone else would have.” Rupert’s tone was careful, clipped, as if weighing each word. Then he pulled something from his coat pocket—a black umbrella—and held it out.

George stared at it dumbly.

“You’ll catch your death out there otherwise,” Rupert said.

George hesitated, then took it with shaking hands. “…Thanks.”

Rupert gave a single, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to his men.

George lingered only a moment longer, eyes catching once more on Max—slumped between his men, bloodied but still breathing. Max’s gaze found him again, hazy but certain, and his lips moved.

Mine.

George flinched, clutching the umbrella tighter. He turned and stumbled out into the rain, opening the umbrella as the storm swallowed him whole.

He told himself it was over.

A one-time horror movie scene that he’d accidentally wandered into. Something he would never speak of again, never see again.

But Max Verstappen never forgot.

And George Russell had just made himself unforgettable.

Pain brought him back.

It was sharp and hot, blooming from his stomach with every shallow breath. The steady pull of stitches kept him from tearing open again, but every movement reminded him of how close he’d come.

Max Verstappen did not nearly die.
Max Verstappen did not bleed out in alleyways.
And yet—he had.

He forced his eyes open.

The safehouse ceiling greeted him, whitewashed wood and faint cracks in the plaster. He’d woken in this room before, though never under circumstances so humiliating. His body felt like lead, the pain throbbing in a steady pulse under the bandages wrapped around his torso.

Memories flickered in jagged fragments.

The Italian bastards had set him up. A deal on neutral ground, one of the bigger shipments—high-value weapons, the kind worth millions. He’d arrived with his best men, two of his most loyal at his back. The Italians had smiled, offered polite words, but the shipment had been wrong. Lighter crates, mismatched serial numbers. He’d known it the second he’d cracked one open.

The trap had sprung before he’d even drawn his gun.

Two of his men had gone down fast, bullets ripping through the night air. Blood sprayed the alley walls, screams muffled by thunder. Max had fought—he always fought—but they’d outnumbered him, circled him, and then the pain had come sharp and burning when the bullet tore into his stomach.

He remembered pressing his hand to the wound, sinking to one knee, fury boiling as he realized he’d been played. He was dying, and worse—dying because of an insult, a betrayal, not because of a fair fight.

The last thing he’d seen before darkness nearly claimed him was a gun raised to his head.

He should’ve died there. He should’ve bled into the pavement like his men.

But he hadn’t.

Because of him.

The stranger.

The boy who didn’t belong.

Max shifted against the pillows, his breath catching with the effort. He closed his eyes, recalling the moment like a brand etched into his mind.

A clatter. A thrown can bouncing against concrete. The gangsters turning, distracted just long enough for survival to slip back into Max’s hands.

And then—those eyes. Wide, terrified, but impossibly brave. A stranger’s hands pressing against his stomach, trembling but refusing to let go. The weight of a body dragging him through the storm, step after painful step, when any sane man would have run.

His angel.

Max’s lips curved faintly. The name fit too well. He didn’t even know his full name yet, but he didn’t need to. Angel would do, for now.

Max remembered faintly that his name was….Gerard? Geo? George, it might be.

He had almost died in the dirt. Instead, he had been saved by someone who owed him nothing. And that made him dangerous to Max—not because the boy was a threat, but because Max already knew he would not let him go.

“Boss.”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts. Max opened his eyes again, shifting them toward the figure in the doorway.

Rupert Manwaring stood there, immaculate as ever despite the faint water stains still darkening his coat from the storm. His posture was straight, his eyes steady, but there was something calculating in his gaze—as always.

“You’re awake,” Rupert said simply.

Max’s voice was rough, strained. “How long?”

“Two days. You were close to losing too much blood. The medic worked through the night.”

Max exhaled slowly, suppressing the wave of weakness rolling through him. “And the Italians?”

Rupert’s jaw tightened. “Two dead at the scene. The third escaped. We’re tracking him. He won’t get far.”

Max’s eyes darkened, fury coiling like a living thing. “They thought they could play me. Deliver shit crates, kill my men, leave me bleeding in the gutter. I’ll make sure their boss eats lead for this.”

“You’ll have your chance,” Rupert said carefully. “But first, you need to heal.”

Max ignored him. His mind was already racing through strategy, allies, points of leverage. The Italians had crossed a line no one crossed—not with him. They would burn for it.

And yet, his thoughts circled back to the same place. The same boy.

His angel.

“What happened to him?” Max asked suddenly, turning his head sharply toward Rupert.

Rupert blinked, caught off guard for the first time. “The young man who… intervened?”

“Yes.” Max’s tone brooked no hesitation.

“He left,” Rupert said slowly. “After you were secured. I told the men to let him go. He didn’t know who you were—he thought it was an accident, a nightmare he wanted no part of.”

Max’s grip tightened on the sheets. “You let him leave?”

Rupert’s voice stayed calm. “Forcing him would have been unwise. He isn’t from this world. He was terrified. You’ll scare him off if you push too hard.”

Max’s lips curved into something cold, something sharp. “He stayed. When every instinct told him to run, he stayed. He dragged me out of there with nothing but his own strength. That makes him mine.”

Rupert’s eyes flickered, just once, betraying his unease. “Boss—”

“Find him,” Max cut in, voice steel. “I want everything. His name, his address, the details of his life. I want to know what he eats for breakfast, what time he sleeps, the exact shade of his eyes when he cries.”

Rupert was silent, watching him carefully.

Max leaned back against the pillows, a strange softness curling into his expression.

He didn’t wait for Rupert’s response. His hand reached for the phone on the bedside table. His fingers ached from the weakness, but his will was iron. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

The call clicked after two rings.

“Max,” came the rough, accented voice of Helmut Marko. Even through the receiver, the man carried the weight of decades in the underworld. Trusted advisor, handler, the man who had seen Max rise and would see him ascend further still.

“You sound like hell,” Helmut drawled.

“I nearly bled out because of Italians who thought they could play me,” Max said flatly. “We’ll deal with them soon enough. But I need something else first.”

A pause. “Go on.”

“There was a boy. A stranger. He saved me.”

Helmut exhaled softly, skeptical. “And?”

“I want everything on him.” Max’s voice dropped, low and possessive. “His name is George. Find him.”

Another pause, this one longer, sharper. “You’re fixated,” Helmut observed.

Max smiled faintly, eyes closing as the memory of rain and trembling hands washed over him again. “My little angel deserves better than drowning in the rain.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Helmut chuckled, dark and amused. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t forget, Max—our world breaks things like that.”

“I don’t break what’s mine,” Max said simply, and ended the call.

The room fell silent again. Max let his eyes drift shut, exhaustion tugging at him.

He should have been plotting revenge, and he was. But under the rage, under the plans of blood and retribution, another certainty burned hotter than all the rest:

He would find George.
He would pull him from whatever pathetic, rain-soaked existence he lived.
And he would never let him go.

The Italians had made one mistake.
But George had made another.

He had saved Max Verstappen’s life.

And Max never forgot his debts.

George stumbled through the morning like a man half-awake, and in truth, that was almost literal. He didn’t sleep well after the storm, after the alley, after the memory of hands pressing against someone else’s wound in the rain. His sheets smelled faintly of damp, the pillow pressed into his cheek still carrying the taste of mud and iron he didn’t want to remember.

He told himself it was a horror movie moment. A surreal sequence of terrible luck. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that was all. He’d handed over a soda can, saved someone’s life, and the next day he’d have a story for friends that no one would believe.

And that would be the end of it.

Except life had other plans.

By noon, George had resumed the search for a job, his CV clutched like a lifeline. He wandered through the streets, the city’s hum turning into a low thrum of background noise. The drizzle from yesterday’s storm lingered in the air, fogging the corners of his vision and sticking his damp hair to his forehead.

The bookstore had already rejected him, he was sure of it. He could see it in the polite, forced smile of the interviewer and the hollow echo of “We’ll be in touch.” He had already felt the weight of disappointment then, but it had only deepened over the night. He was broke. Always behind on rent. Eating meals that had the faint, stale taste of compromise.

He ducked into a small café, hoping warmth might thaw more than his sodden jacket. The bell over the door tinkled, and the faint smell of coffee hit him, cloying and comforting at once. He ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a black coffee—and sank into a booth by the window.

He could barely meet his reflection in the glass. Disheveled, exhausted, the rain-soaked jacket still damp and clinging to him in uncomfortable patches. His mind wandered, replaying the alley, the panic, the way Max’s eyes had flicked open and caught his.

No, George told himself. That was over. A boy in a horror movie, that was all.

The steam from his coffee blurred the glass. He stared at it, tracing patterns absentmindedly, forcing himself to think about the mundane: rent, the interview that failed, the stack of overdue bills at home.

He tried to focus, tried to push the memory to the back of his mind. But the city has a way of reminding you that you’re never alone, even when you think you are.

A shadow flickered outside the café window. He blinked, shook his head, and leaned back. There was no one there. Just a pedestrian walking too fast, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

He chided himself. See? Nothing. Just nerves. Rain. Coffee.

But over the next hour, the sense of being watched crept in again and again. The man who walked past the café and lingered by the crosswalk a second too long. The car parked across the street that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. He told himself it was coincidence. It had to be.

By the time he left, coffee cold and half-forgotten, George’s pulse had picked up. He hunched his shoulders, bag strap cutting into his shoulder, and walked faster, trying to get home. The drizzle had turned to a light rain again, persistent enough to make him uncomfortable but not enough to force shelter.

Back at his flat, he sank into the couch, kicking off wet shoes and rubbing at his temples. The bills were waiting. One was past due, another would be by the end of the week. He counted in his head: rent, electricity, groceries, nothing else. He didn’t even have the money for a taxi to anywhere that might have helped.

He flopped backward onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The last thing he wanted was to replay the alley again, but it came anyway: the sound of gunfire, the glint of the barrel aimed at Max’s head, the adrenaline, the panic, the unreasonably heroic moment of throwing a soda can.

He shivered. He told himself again, It’s over. It’s done. You saved him. You’re not in that world. You’re safe.

And yet.

The words lingered. Mine.

George tried to distract himself. He opened his laptop and scrolled through job postings. Nothing new. Nothing promising. One entry led to a rejection form before he could even finish the application. His stomach growled. The fridge offered little consolation beyond a can of tuna and a questionable half loaf of bread.

He made himself a sandwich, muttering under his breath at the soggy bread and the bland filling. He chewed mechanically, the taste dull compared to the memory burning in the back of his skull.

The shadow feeling persisted. He tried to rationalize it: a passerby, a neighbor, maybe even Rupert’s men. That had to be it, right? No one knew where he lived; he wasn’t in Max’s world. He wasn’t anyone of importance.

And yet…

The next few days fell into a tense rhythm. George would leave the flat, job-hunting or trying to scrape together freelance shifts online. He felt the same unnerving sense of being followed more than once: a black sedan parked too long across the street, the same man in a dark coat in the corner of a café, just far enough away to avoid confrontation.

He shook it off each time, blaming coincidence or paranoia. It’s a one-time thing. It’s over. You’re imagining it.

But every now and then, the image of Max’s bloodied eyes, the faint smirk, the possessive murmured words slipped back in. His “angel.”

George would shiver and tell himself again: This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

One evening, exhausted, George returned from an interview that had gone nowhere. The drizzle returned, lighter than the storm but enough to dampen his hair and jacket. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and walked briskly down the street, glancing at the pavement.

A flash of movement caught his eye. A man standing on the corner, nondescript in a dark coat, eyes trained on him. George froze.

It’s just a shadow. It’s nothing. You’re overthinking it.

But the man didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply watched.

George’s pulse hammered in his ears. He stepped off the sidewalk, pulling his bag tighter, forcing himself to appear casual, to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

One-time horror movie.

He repeated it like a mantra.

He reached his building, swiping the keycard, glancing back once more. The figure was gone.

He exhaled shakily. Safe. It had to be safe.

But that night, when he lay in bed, the rain still pattering faintly against the window, George’s mind betrayed him.

A voice, soft and possessive, flickered behind his eyelids:

Mine.

His stomach twisted. He clutched the blanket tighter.

No. It couldn’t be real.

He forced his eyes closed. Pretended it was just a dream, a memory of the storm, of someone he’d helped and would never see again.

He would tell himself that again and again.

Except Max never forgot.

And someone who had saved Max Verstappen? That person never truly left his mind.

George groaned as the rain hit his umbrella—or rather, what little cover he had. London had a way of feeling endless in the rain, the streets smeared with gray, puddles reflecting the dull streetlights, and the sky a solid wall of water. His jacket was already damp, his shoes soaked through, and his hair plastered to his forehead.

Another day. Another interview.

He had decided on a coffee shop today. Not because he had a passion for barista work or the intoxicating smell of roasted beans, but because anything was better than nothing. Anything that would let him pay rent and stop living off stale bread and instant noodles.

The bus stand offered a meager reprieve, a plastic canopy that barely kept the rain off. George huddled under it, tapping his fingers against his damp bag. The interview would start soon, and he had no illusions about getting the job, but he kept repeating: One day, one step, one shitty coffee job at a time.

A soft splash beside him made him glance up. A man was walking toward him, hands in his pockets, hair damp but deliberately styled, trench coat perfectly cut, shoes gleaming even in the rain. He carried a large black umbrella.

“Need some cover?” the man asked, his voice warm, casual, like he’d appeared out of nowhere.

George blinked, surprised. “Uh… I—thanks.”

The man tilted the umbrella toward him, smile bright, like sunlight breaking through the gray. Something about it made George hesitate for just a heartbeat. But the rain was relentless, and he was tired, cold, and utterly miserable.

“Thanks,” George muttered, stepping closer. “I… appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said again, tilting his head slightly, that same smile lingering. “You look like you could use it.”

George smiled back faintly, embarrassed by how relieved he felt under the small bubble of dry space. For a few minutes, he followed the man along the sidewalk, feeling a little lighter, like someone had noticed him, like the rain wasn’t entirely suffocating.

As they reached the corner near the coffee shop, George felt a strange hesitation. “Uh… thanks again. Really.”

The man’s smile softened, but something in his eyes shifted ever so slightly. He tapped his phone in one hand, then lifted it to speak.

A cold, clipped voice answered almost immediately. “Daniel? What?”

George froze, confused. He glanced down at the man’s phone, then at him.

“I found him, Max,” Daniel said quietly, a small, almost satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

George blinked, unsure if he’d heard it correctly. “Uh… I—sorry?”

The man—Daniel—gave him a final, polite nod. “Good luck with the interview,” he said, lowering the umbrella slightly as if nothing had happened, and then turned, walking away down the street.

George stood frozen for a moment, the damp morning pressing against him, the umbrella still half in his hand. Something in the exchange felt… wrong. But the smile, the warmth of it, the polite gesture, made him shake his head.

It’s just someone being kind. Just London. Rain. Overthinking it.

He shook off the thought, tucked the umbrella under his arm, and crossed the street toward the coffee shop. He didn’t know it yet, but he had just stepped back into Max’s world.

And Max had been waiting.