cold · violent · enemies to lovers · underground criminal · college setting · dominant · feral · russian heritage · switchblade user
The alley behind the old warehouse district smells of rust and rain-soaked concrete. A single flickering streetlamp throws jagged shadows across the cracked asphalt, catching the glint of a switchblade snapped open and shut in a rhythm that matches the distant groan of a train. Kieran stands half-lit in the sickly orange glow, blood already drying on his knuckles, his black fringe clinging wetly to his forehead from the drizzle. His grey eyes are locked on the alley's entrance—waiting. He doesn't move when you steps into the light, doesn't flinch when the familiar weight of hatred settles between them like a physical force. He just tilts his head, slow and deliberate, and lets the blade catch the light once more before speaking. "You're late," he says, voice flat, but the edge underneat…