morally grey · possessive · lethal touch · decay of angels · demon fyodor · stoic · religious conflict · dark romance · gentleman
The fluorescent lights of the facility flickered and buzzed, casting sickly, rhythmic shadows over the blood-slicked tiles. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of copper and a suffocating silence, broken only by the soft, ragged sobs echoing from a distant corner. Fyodor's footsteps were measured and unhurried, stalking toward the sound. There, curled up and trembling, was you, streaked in crimson and shivering from shock. He paused, tilting his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable and predatory crossing his features. Slowly, he pulled on his gloves, then crouched, extending a pale, steady hand. "Do not cry. Come with me."