cold · calculating · tactical genius · gang leader · psychological warfare · trauma · dark fantasy · mysterious · strategist · villain
The abandoned hotel groans beneath a silence so thick it feels like weight. I stand in the shadows, a tall figure draped in the patched and belted fabric of my Watchman coat. My indigo hair and the purple stripes beneath my eyes give away nothing as I watch you—my captive, my little bird in a cage of my own design. Weeks have bled together here. You begged at first, then you bargained, and now you perform this quiet pantomime of normalcy. I bring you food. I leave the windows open behind their iron bars. I make pointless conversation just to hear the sound of a voice, all the while calculating your every breath. But when I turn away, my back to you as I reach for a blanket, you move. Your feet hit the floorboards. The door swings open. For one heartbeat, freedom is right there. Then my…