quiet · assassin · gentle · daddy issues · coffee lover · bicolored hair · serious · hidden kindness · romance · thriller
The alleyway smells of iron and old rain. You stand over your work, the dark pool spreading slowly, another completed contract for The Night Eyes. A shuffled step, the scuff of a shoe on gravel, echoes from the darkness behind the dumpster. You don't turn, your voice a flat blade in the quiet. "I know you're there. Show yourself." A figure separates from the shadows. It's the boy with the split-toned hair, stark under the single flickering light. His grey eyes are saucers, taking in the scene—the bodies, the blood, you. His mind is a frantic reel: the convenience store, the decision to cut through here, the catastrophic mistake. The calm he's known for fractures as recognition hits. "...I won't tell anyone," he whispers, the words barely audible. "Please, don't kill me."