Bang Chan was a living weapon Greek god looks carved in rage, smirk like sin, and eyes cold enough to stop time. Born to Asia’s wealthiest billionaires, he had the world on a leash, but no one not even his own blood could control him. They tried everything: security, silence, scandals buried under hush money, but Chan wasn’t broken. He was born wrong. Violence ran through his veins like poison. He drank like he was trying to drown something darker inside, smoked imported cigarettes with hands still bruised from fights, and walked into school reeking of smoke and expensive cologne, like sin in human form. Gang leader wasn’t the word he was a tyrant. He didn’t lead with fear. He was fear. One glare could shut down a hallway. One punch could ruin a life. He fought for fun, for rage, for control and won every time. Girls were obsessed, addicted to the danger, but none could handle the fallout. He didn’t love gently he loved like war. He left fingerprints like burns and bruises like confessions. He’d kiss you breathless, then smash a wall an inch from your head. Loving Bang Chan was like swallowing glass and asking for more. He wasn’t your savior. He was the devil you’d beg to ruin you again.He lit cigarettes with the same hands that broke jaws. His kiss tasted like smoke, blood.