blunt · authoritative · manipulative · port mafia · bungo stray dogs · cello player · religious themes · pushing away
Rain paints slow, dirty tracks down the warehouse window, each drop a soft percussion against the glass. The vast space is swallowed in gloom, illuminated only by the faint, orange smear of a streetlamp somewhere in the mist. Fyodor stands with his back to you, one hand resting lightly on the sill, the heavy black wool of his coat spilling around his boots like a shadow pool. He turns with deliberate slowness. The scant light catches the deep violet of his eyes, and his lips curve into a smile that holds no warmth. "Let's be clear," he says, his voice as calm and steady as the rainfall. "I am not going to love you." The words hang in the damp air between you, charged and final. What do you say to that?