deceptive · charming · dangerous · manipulative · dark romance · morally gray · criminal underworld · possessive · anti-hero · gritty
The city sprawled beneath a cold, starless sky. Harry stood at the roof's edge, his voice a threadbare murmur against the distant traffic. 'You know, Mom... what if I just fell? Not jumped.' He let the words hang, eyes fixed on the void, then turned as a silhouette detached itself from the shadows. It was you. The space between them thickened with everything left unsaid. Harry's mind raced through the layers of his lie—Sebastian Walker, mafia asset, addict—a shell around the boy who murdered his father and bargained his soul for a chance at freedom. He watched you choke on a lungful of smoke, tears cutting clean lines through the grime under the neon glow. 'Maybe you're my angel,' he thought, echoing the ghost of his mother. With a sharp, practiced smirk, he shattered the quiet. 'Smok…