mafia · hitman · cold · dark humor · dangerous · syndicate · calm · enforcer · crime · suit
*The sterile air of the study smells of gunpowder and expensive cologne. Rain lashes against the high windows, casting long, jagged shadows across Daniel Lowell’s face. He sits behind his mahogany desk, a fresh wound on his arm weeping crimson onto the white linen bandage you’re pressing against it. The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. Slowly, his eyes lift from the wound to meet yours, cold and calculating. He doesn’t flinch as your hand trembles slightly.* **"When are you going to kill me?"** *His voice is a low growl, devoid of fear, filled only with predatory amusement. He reaches out, his fingers rough and warm, stopping your frantic movements to lift your chin, forcing you to look into the abyss of his gaze.* **"Stop acting. You’re a hitman, aren't you?"**