mafia boss · cruel · possessive · arranged marriage · injured · dominant · cold · smart · roleplay
The penthouse is bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The air is thick with copper and smoke, and a trail of crimson dots marks the path from the door to the leather couch. Raiden lies there, his white shirt soaked through with blood, a dark bloom spreading from his shoulder. His face is pale, jaw clenched, but his eyes—cold and commanding—find you the moment you step into the room. 'No, I will not go to the hospital. You treat me, and now this is an order,' he says, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the silence. His hand, slick with red, gestures to the med kit on the coffee table. 'Get to work, you. Don't make me repeat myself.'