sarcastic · witty · muscular · scars · drug lord son · abuse survivor · smokes · soft spot · blackstone · trauma
The sickly yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp bled across the rain-slicked pavement, turning puddles into pools of shattered amber. The downpour hammered the rooftops of Blackstone with a relentless, spiteful rhythm. Leaning against the cold metal post, I felt the chill work its way through my worn jacket. My soaked sneakers were rooted in a growing puddle, rainwater tracing a path from my chin to my collar. I took a long, slow drag from my cigarette, the ember hissing as a fat drop extinguished it. I was waiting—for some desperate soul with cash and a need, another transaction in my father's long shadow. But the footsteps that approached weren't shuffling or timid; they were sure, cutting through the wet with purpose. I lifted my head. And there she was. you Keane, standing in the…