Jerome Black and His Princess

Aiyana's P.O.V

I always thought dying would be quieter.

People talk about peaceful transitions, gentle slipping, slow drifting into darkness…but whoever said that, never bled out on cracked pavement in front of the most cursed gates in the country.

My breaths were wet, thick, like I was inhaling through broken glass. Every rise of my chest scraped fire down my ribs. A copper taste coated my tongue, warm and metallic, and when I coughed, something solid came up. Blood. Maybe a tooth. Hard to tell. Everything hurt too much to care.

The night around me pulsed with noise, the distant hum of a generator, the clatter of metal swinging in the breeze, but all of it blurred around the pounding in my head.

I forced my eyes open again.

There they were.

The Black Gates.

Forbidden. Avoided. Feared like a living creature.

Two towering slabs of reinforced steel, matte black and veined with deep scratches—some from bullets, some from things people never lived long enough to describe. Even the air tasted different here. Heavier. Denser. As though the gates themselves were breathing.

Everyone in the country avoided this place. Even the government pretended this street didn’t exist. No police. No politicians. No civilians. Only one man owned this entire stretch of land and every trembling soul within its borders.

Jerome Black.

The man behind the gates.

The monster.

The myth.

The mafia king who had bought entire districts simply to burn them down out of boredom.

The man rumored to bury people alive just to hear what their last words were like.

And I, stupid, unlucky Aiyana was dying right at his front door for saving a little boy from the bad guys that actually ended up still dragging him away.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest before dissolving into another coughing fit. My fingers twitched against the cold pavement, scraping at nothing.

My vision blurred again.

The world shimmered.

Somewhere in the haze, distant footsteps echoed.

Not from behind the gate.

From the street.

At first, my brain couldn’t process it. No one walked on this street.

No one breathed on this street. Even animals refused to cross into this boundary, but the steady rhythm of expensive leather shoes grew louder.

A car door clicked shut.

I blinked hard, forcing my eyes to cooperate.

I had no idea why I still had the strength to be scared as the footsteps got closer. I mean, I was already dead so…

A shape approached through the darkness, framed by the glow of streetlights that flickered like candles in a storm. The figure grew clearer, broad shoulders, tall frame, sharp silhouette.

Before he came fully into view, the car behind him drew my attention, gleaming black metal that caught every fragment of light and reflected it like liquid obsidian.

Everything was black: the body, the rims, even the tinted windows that swallowed the night whole.

I smiled. It was an involuntary, delirious curl of my lips.

What a beautiful thing to see before dying.

Luxury wrapped in shadows.

A ridiculous thought.

Another breath rattled through my chest.

He stepped closer.

And then I saw him.

Jerome Black.

I’d never seen him before, as no one who wasn’t part of his world had, but the stories didn’t do him justice.

He wasn’t the beast I imagined.

He wasn’t monstrous in the grotesque sense. Instead, he was devastatingly sharp. Devastatingly lethal.

His suit was black, tailored to perfection, hugging a body built on precision strength. Not enormous like a brute but controlled, and deliberate The buttons of his shirt were undone at the collar, exposing a hint of ink along his throat. Dark tattoos teased the skin just enough to warn anyone with sense.

His hair was slicked back, dark as his reputation, immaculate even in the night breeze. And his eyes…

Oh wow.

They were the worst part.

Not because they were cruel but because they were empty.

Empty like the gates behind me. Like bullets with no names. Like graves without headstones.

He stopped a few feet away, watching me with no visible interest, only cold assessment. If I were a stain on his carpet, he might show more irritation.

My voice was dust.

“Hi…” I managed to squeak out. It came out cracked, barely a sound. Pathetic, but the most pathetic part was me saying ‘hi’ on impulse, out of the fear the gripped me by the heart.

His jaw twitched, a reaction so small most people wouldn’t catch it, but I did. Maybe because I was dying and hyperaware of everything, or maybe because nothing makes a person honest like the moments before death.

He didn’t crouch. Didn’t rush. Didn’t call for help.

He simply stood there, observing me like a puzzle piece that didn’t belong on his board.

Then he spoke.

Low. Smooth. Terrifyingly calm.

“You’re bleeding on my street.” He stated with a very deep voice that suited his persona, and as soon as it did, my throat tightened, and a weak laugh escaped me more air than sound.

“Sorry, I’ll m-move” I stutter as I try to push myself up but that was just wishful thinking.

It was crazy that my last night was so eventful. More eventful than my entire life on earth.

I tried lifting my arm. It shook violently and dropped back to the ground with a slap. The world doubled.

He watched the pathetic attempt with no expression.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Strange. Why would a man like him bother asking?

“Aiyana.” I whispered.

The name felt like it floated away from me, like it didn't even want to remain in my mouth any longer.

His gaze flicked over me again, quick, precise, like he was taking inventory…bruised ribs, split lip, blood matting my hair, the torn fabric around my torso where someone had stabbed me. Twice. Maybe three times. Honestly, I lost count.

“You’re dying, Aiyana.” He stated, very dryly and

I smiled again. Couldn’t help it. My lips were numb.

“I know.”

Something shifted in his eyes then subtle, but unmistakable. Interest. Not concern or pity.

Just interest, like he’d found something unusual. Something unexpected.

I braced for him to walk away, knowing Jerome Black didn’t save strays.

He killed them, but instead, he took one slow step closer.

Then another and finally crouched down, the motion smooth and controlled. His suit didn’t wrinkle, I guess.

His expression didn’t soften, that I was sure of as his face was all I stared at.

It felt like such a nice parting from the earth.

The scent of him reached me. Clean, expensive, and cold as steel but the only thing I could see was the shiny black car.

“Your car…” I murmured, my eyes drifting to the polished black metal gleaming behind him. “It’s… pretty”

His brows lifted by the smallest fraction—a flicker of disbelief.

Then, unexpectedly, his lips twitched.

Not a smile, but something close.

“A dying woman complimenting my car.” His voice dropped lower, almost a murmur. “That’s new.”

Another shiver of cold washed through me. My limbs felt too heavy to keep, like they were filled with wet sand.

“Everything’s… shiny,” I whispered.

Then everything faded.