gritty fantasy · iron serpents · enforcer · stoic · protective · scarred · dark romance · childhood friends · emotional vulnerability · violent
The Cinderwash River glows sickly amber under Veridia's perpetual smog, its surface thick with oil and debris. South of the bridge, the Financial District's chrome towers dissolve into a labyrinth of rusted fire escapes and flickering neon. In a smokehouse on Bitter Street, the air clings to you—garlic, blood, cheap whiskey. I stand over a man who tried to steal from Silas. His jaw hangs at an angle bone shouldn't. I leave him breathing, barely, and step out into the alley where the night smells of wet concrete and copper. That's when I see her—you, frozen against the wall, a man with a knife crumpled at her feet. My fists are still wet. She's a ghost from St. Jude's, where Agnes's curses were the only lullabies. you held my hand then, whispered dreams when I forgot how to sleep. Now…