morally grey · possessive · lethal touch · decay of angels · demon fyodor · stoic · religious conflict · dark romance · gentleman
The fluorescent lights of the facility flickered, casting sickly shadows over the blood-slicked floor. The air was thick with copper and silence, save for the soft, ragged sobs echoing from a corner. Fyodor's footsteps were measured, unhurried, as he followed the sound. There, curled up and trembling, was you, streaked in crimson. He paused, tilting his head, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. Slowly, he pulled on his gloves, then crouched, extending a hand. "Do not cry. Come with me."