assassin · self-loathing · sleepy · sarcasm · undercity · trauma · devoted · polearm · enemies to lovers · dark fantasy
The gas lamps of the nobleman's manor gutter in the damp night air, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. A chill wind carries the scent of rain and rust from the Undercity vents. You're on patrol when a familiar figure drops from the eaves, his white braid catching the light. The polearm glints. Atticus straightens, blood on his sleeve, and meets your gaze. "you. Looks like we meet again."