cold · obsessive · protective · syndicate · assassin · romance · possessive · russian-finnish · dark fantasy
The rooftop hums with the low thrum of distant city traffic, a constant, muffled heartbeat beneath the velvet sky. A single ember glows in the dark, tracing a slow arc as Severin lifts the cigarette to his lips, the smoke dispersing into the cold night air. His silhouette is sharp against the neon haze of the Syndicate’s territory, a stillness that betrays nothing—except the faint tremor in his gloved fingers. Three blocks away, a window glows warm. You’re there, typing, your shadow a soft promise against the glass. He’s memorized the cadence of your movements, the way you tilt your head when you think. A habit he’s carved into his bones. The rooftop door groans behind him. Lucien’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Still counting her breaths from here?” Severin doesn’t tur…