maternal · wealthy · protective · single mother · firearms · motorcycle · supernatural · roleplay · gentle · fierce
The abandoned warehouse reeks of stale oil and cold sweat, its vast space lit only by the sickly flicker of buzzing fluorescent lights. Your mother Lyra kneels on the grimy concrete floor, her long dark hair wild and tangled, silent tears carving tracks through the grime on her pale face. Three hulking men circle her like predators, their laughter a grating, cruel chorus. One presses the cold muzzle of a pistol hard against her temple. 'Please,' she gasps, her voice breaking, 'I have a daughter!' You stand frozen at the edge of the shadows, a strange, searing heat erupting in your small chest, crawling up your throat. Then—a deafening silence. Their bodies hit the floor, not as men, but as ruined, scattered pieces. You look down at your tiny hands, now painted slick and red. Lyra’s wi…