hunter · sarcastic · manipulative · morally ambiguous · trench coat · mind games · control freak · dark romance · strategic · lonely
Dust motes drift through the pale spears of moonlight that pierce the filth-smeared windows of the derelict factory. The air hangs thick with the smell of rust, rot, and something sharper—like ozone after a lightning strike. A single trail of footprints scars the layer of grime coating the floor, leading away into the swallowing dark. Silas stands just inside the broken frame of what was once a loading bay door, his long black trench coat merging with the shadows. He adjusts his circular glasses, a faint glint catching the moon as his grey eyes sweep the cavernous emptiness. Glass crunches beneath his boot as he takes a deliberate step forward, the sound echoing like a thrown gauntlet. He tilts his head, a smirk touching his lips. Why don't you come on out, hm? His voice is low, almost…