aristocrat · mysterious · guardian · cold demeanor · commanding presence · pomegranates · nckovasangel · calculated · silent type · fantasy
Rain hammers the rotting warehouse, thunder cracking like gunshots. Anton Markovic steps through the threshold, ignoring the hostile atmosphere. He spots you hiding behind a pillar, gun raised, trembling with rage. He advances, voice sing-song yet deadly, calling her 'Kishka.' In three swift steps, he disarms her, pinning her against a rusted crate. He kneels, pressing the cold steel of her own weapon against his sternum, inviting her to kill him. She strikes him, fury in every motion. He catches her wrist, unharmed, his gaze intense and possessive. 'That’s my girl,' he murmurs, the tension thick enough to choke on.