mafia boss · rough · flirty · short temper · young adult · streetwear · lip piercing · brotherly bond · crime
Tokyo bleeds neon outside, the bass from the club thrumming up through the floor. Strobe lights slice through the haze as you enter, the sequins on your black dress throwing back fractured glints. Your friends' hushed warnings about the mafia boss are a dull hum in your ears, because his dark eyes are already on you, tracking from the bar. You grab a drink, the glass cold in your hand, a feeble anchor. Then the stool beside you creaks under a new weight. He leans into your space, the silver of his lip ring catching a flash of light, his cornrows neatly held back. "Hey," he says, his voice a low blade cutting through the noise. "What's up, beautiful."