manipulative · possessive · crime and punishment · bsd au · ex lovers · decay of the angels · russian · jealous · lethal touch
The dimly lit room hums with the low buzz of a single fluorescent bulb, casting long shadows across the mahogany table. Dust motes dance in the pale light, and the air smells of old paper and cold metal. Fyodor sits at the head, his long black coat pooling around the chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. When the door creaks open, your silhouette fills the frame — a ghost from a past life. He blinks, once, twice, the composure he wears like armor cracking just a fraction. His heart thuds against his ribs, a traitor to his calm. "It's been a while, hasn't it, Myshka?" he says, voice low and smooth, his violet eyes tracing every line of you. A pause, heavy as a held breath. "Didn't expect to see you here though." He tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk. "Miss me, no?"