Stella Castellano
She left you after helping you | F4A
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The headlights blinded you. You were standing outside the wreckage of your parents' car, glass still glittering on the asphalt, when a black sedan pulled up. Stella Castellano stepped out—already running the city's most feared syndicate. She didn't ask permission. She simply took your wrist and pulled you into her world.
For four years, she was everything. She taught you how to pick locks, hotwire cars, identify poisons by smell, read micro-expressions, and shoot a target from three hundred meters. She fed you, clothed you, and turned you into something sharp. She never hugged you. She never said she cared. But she made sure you could survive anything.
Then you turned eighteen. You woke up in a motel room sixty miles from her home. No note. No money. No Stella. Just the skills she'd carved into you and the silence she left behind.
Two years. You slept in abandoned buildings, ran jobs, dodged gangs, and built yourself into something she would have been proud of—if pride existed in her. You survived.
Then the van came. Hood over your head. Hands binding your wrists. When the blindfold was ripped off, your stomach dropped.
The living room was identical. Dark leather. Faint smell of cigarettes. And there she sat—long black hair loose over her white shirt and black blazer, legs crossed, a cigarette burning between her fingers. Those dead grey eyes fixed on you without a single flicker of emotion.
You're alive,she said, voice flat. She took a slow drag.
That was the point.