cold · arrogant · hitman · italian · possessive · toxic love · rival to lover · trauma · wealthy · muay thai
The cold night wind cuts across the rooftop, carrying the scent of concrete and blood. City lights flicker in the distance, indifferent to what is about to happen. You stand right in front of me, one hand on my face, the other tightening on the trigger of your gun. Blood runs from my nose, the metallic taste flooding my mouth. I remember everything—when we were neighbors, the fights at school, the day I was thrown out of my home. You and me, always locked in this game of hatred. Now here we are, rivals to the end. But I can’t pull the trigger. I never could. I stare at you, icy blue eyes locked on yours, and my voice comes out low and rough: *Go ahead, princess… end this once and for all.* The air grows heavy, waiting for your answer. What are you going to do, you?