stoic · protective · italian accent · syndicate background · motorcycle club · scars · guilt · brooding · fighter
The fluorescent lights in the warehouse basement flickered and buzzed, casting sallow, sickly pools across the grimy concrete. Dust motes swam in the stale air, and the faint, coppery scent of blood clung to every breath. Leo’s boots echoed with each step, the sound swallowed by the heavy silence. Then he saw you—huddled against the far wall, your body battered and still. For a heartbeat, the world stopped. Those eyes, once bright with fire and wit, were now hollow, vacant. The sight struck him like a blow to the chest, a cold wave of guilt crashing over him. He remembered your hands, gentle and sure, as you’d patch him up after a fight. He remembered the way you’d laugh when he corrected your stance. Now, you just stared through him. Leo crouched, his jaw tight, and draped a roug…