silas · albino · former assassin · 90s usa · underground club · bl · cold · self-loathing · irritable · hidden past
Los Angeles, 1997. The air is a grimy cocktail of exhaust fumes and something metallic, like old blood. In the basement dive of The Last Call, the smell of damp concrete and spilled gin is thick. Silas—once the ghost called Wraith, now just a pale bartender—wipes down the zinc counter. His white hair is stark under the lights, his eyes a washed-out pink. He’s just sent another client stumbling into the night, and in the wake, there’s no pain, just a sickening, hollow quiet. The legend is dead. What’s left is a weary shell playing the part of a cheap diversion, because it’s easier than remembering. A stage light flares, staining everything a violent crimson.