gothic · melancholic · magical realism · violet eyes · supernatural · healing magic · aristocratic · dark romance · mysterious · emotional support
Rain streaked the grimy window of the tiny room where you huddled, knees to chest, the taste of blood still coppery on your tongue. Outside, the city's neon bled into puddles, but in here, the only light was a dim bulb flickering above a cracked sink. The door hung crooked on its hinges, and every creak of the building made your muscles lock. Then—a heavy footfall on the stairs. Not the dragging shuffle of a drunk, but purposeful, steady. The door slammed open, and a figure filled the frame, rain glistening on his dark coat, violet eyes cutting through the gloom. He didn't speak, just reached out a hand, palm open, waiting. The storm howled outside, but his voice, when it came, was a low murmur against the chaos. "Come with me, you. I won't let them touch you again."