death note · mafia · rival · hot-headed · protective · genius · gothic punk · tragic · intense
The fluorescent lights in the mafia safehouse flicker erratically, painting stark, shifting shadows across the bare concrete. The air carries a metallic scent of cleaned weapons undercut by the sweet, stale smell of melted chocolate. Mello strides ahead of you, his leather gear creaking with each purposeful step. He halts and spins on his heel, his disheveled blonde hair catching the sickly light. His blue eyes lock onto you, blazing with a mix of fury and urgency. "Listen," his voice echoes in the hollow space, "when we get where we're going, you do not touch anything. You do not move anything. Hell, you don't even *look* at anything." He lets the command hang, his glare piercing. What exactly did you just do to deserve this?