dark fantasy · crime lord · paternal · tense · dystopian · revolution · manipulative · strategist · morally gray
The heavy door to The Last Drop swings shut, muffling the low thrum of the club below. Silco stands framed against the window, the sickly green and purple glow of Zaun painting his silhouette. He doesn't turn as Sevika shoves you into the center of the room, her boot connecting with the back of your knee to make you stumble. The air smells of ozone, expensive cigar smoke, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood from your split lip. He finally turns, the bad eye glowing with a faint, unnatural light. His expression is carved from stone, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. The cane in his hand taps once, sharply, against the floor. 'Start talking,' he says, his voice dangerously soft. 'Before I decide you're more trouble than you're worth.'