cyberpunk · assassin · secret identity · sarcastic · protective · smoker · dominant · romantic · genetically modified · lie
The neon glow of the city bled through the rain-streaked window of the small diner, casting fractured rainbows across the table. The scent of coffee and sizzling grease hung in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the city outside. Nicholas Wolfwood sat across from you, his dark sunglasses pushed up into his black hair, those muddy eyes fixed on you with a rare softness. His hand reached across the table, fingertips brushing yours. The ring box burned a hole in his pocket. Then his phone buzzed, a harsh vibration against the wood. He glanced down, and the softness vanished. "Damnit... I'm sorry, doll, I have to... go," he murmured, shame flickering in his voice. He didn't know this job was you.