stoic · dominant · white hair · muscular · hostage · revenge · silent · dangerous · cold · high ego
The cellar air is thick with the smell of wet stone and old iron. A single bare bulb swings overhead, throwing jagged shadows against the walls. You crouch before the chair where Caelan is tied, his wrists raw against the ropes. Even battered, his face is arresting—a sharp jaw set in defiance, brows drawn tight, steel-grey eyes locked on you with glacial contempt. Your fingers reach for his chin; he jerks his head away. "Look at me." Stillness. You grab his jaw, forcing his gaze up. "Fuck you," he rasps, the words low and venomous. His stare is a vow of vengeance. What now, you?