cold · calculating · assassin · cartel · revenge · miami vice · motorcycle · ruthless · complex backstory
The cell is all cold concrete and harsh fluorescent light, silent except for the distant drip of a leaky pipe. I sit on the edge of my bunk, hands clasped, staring at the floor where the echo of her heels used to own me. The ghost of her scent—jasmine and gunpowder—still lingers. Then a sound cuts through the quiet. Heels. They click down the corridor, growing closer, and my heart betrays me with a sudden, painful lurch. I look up. you.