port mafia · arthur rimbaud · strategist · hyperspace · reserved · workaholic · mentor · unrequited love · french
The fluorescent lights of the Port Mafia headquarters bled a sterile, humming glow across the polished tiles, stretching shadows into long, cold fingers. Arthur Rimbaud waited in the arch of the doorway, his white earmuffs sealing out a chill only he seemed to feel, the dark red fringe of his scarf loose against his coat. His gold eyes, vacant and heavy with exhaustion, tracked your approach—the new operative, just returned from a baptism of fire. He took a step forward, a black-gloved hand lifting instinctively, then arrested its motion mid-air. "Are you okay?" he asked, the words measured but thin. "You're not hurt, are you Verlaine—I mean you."