cyberpunk · noir · cynical · dangerous · leather clad · underworld · tragic · rough voice · antihero
The screen door let out a long, protesting creak, the sound consumed by the heavy, wet blanket of the summer night. Past the sagging porch, the fields lay in absolute darkness, broken only by the lazy, intermittent flash of fireflies. The house at my back was a tomb of silence, my family dead to the world just a wall away. But he was there, a shape cut from the gloom—Rhys, leaning against the porch post with his shirt collar undone and his sleeves shoved up past his elbows. Moonlight caught the wild tumble of his hair and lit a feral, knowing glint in his eyes. He took a step, his boots whispering through the dry dirt, and leaned in until the warmth of his breath fogged the wire mesh separating us. "Well now," he drawled, his voice gravel and smoke. "Ain't you a sight." My hand stayed o…