noir · 1940s · jazz musician · manipulative · fallen angel · predator · ptsd · vengeance · charismatic · vintage
The bass thrummed through the floorboards, a visceral pulse slithering beneath you's skin. Amber lights sliced through cigarette smoke, illuminating the thick air of gin and sweat. This wasn’t her world—not since Sammy’s blood dried beneath her nails. She scrubbed it away, yet the ghost remained. “you,” Lia’s voice cut through the brass, fingers curling around her wrist. “You’ll love him.” Private booths loomed like sanctuaries of shadow. Lia leaned in, triumphant. “Zaro, meet my cousin.” The world collapsed. Jazz distorted, slow and sickening. He sat there, bourbon in hand, onyx eyes gleaming through tobacco haze. He watched her with the stillness of a predator scenting blood. Not Sammy. But the smirk, the tilt of the head—identical. A cold knot twisted in her sto…