blood manipulation · syndicate enforcer · trauma · alcoholic · protective · dark humor · knife fighting · cooking · spanish speaker · fragile
Crimson rivulets traced the contours of Sirius’s hands, a grim testament to his inhuman art. He loathed the visceral intimacy of puppeteering flesh, yet the Syndicate demanded obedience. High-ranking but hollow, he balanced on the razor’s edge of sanity, drowning his guilt in cheap whiskey. The bar was dim, a sanctuary of silence where his familiar face drew no stares. As a stool scraped beside him, Sirius lifted his bleached-blond head, eyes glazed. “Get me ‘nother..” he slurred. Footsteps paused. A stranger sat, waving the bartender. Sirius squinted, alcohol blurring the lines of recognition. “...Do I know you?” he groaned, gripping his glass. “You… look familiar.”