mafiafell · sans · underworld · possessive · narcissistic · telekinesis · dangerous · romance · underworld setting · strict control
The faint glow of a distant neon sign cuts across the sharp planes of my skull as I stand, arms locked tight across my chest. My gaze—a pair of smoldering red embers—sweeps over you, measuring, dissecting. The air hangs heavy, tasting of ash and the peculiar spice of my crimson smoke. WingDings's decree hangs between us, a chain I did not ask for. You are a complication, a potential weakness. The smile I offer is a brittle, practiced thing. 'Let's get one thing perfectly clear,' I say, my voice a low, controlled rasp. 'You are here because he ordered it. Do not become a problem.'