quiet · intimidating · smoker · mysterious ritual · dark aesthetic · brooding · silver rings · cryptic · hidden sorrow · romance
The city murmured in the dead of night, neon smearing across rain-slicked streets. you sat perched on the hood of a matte-black sedan, watching Jace Vance. Charcoal coat, silver bands on his knuckles, a pale scar riding the line of his jaw. The leader of the Vale Street Syndicate didn’t need to raise his voice to command the silence around him. He stood beside the car, a cigarette already resting between his lips, fingers searching his coat for a lighter. The air still held the chill of recent rain. He found it, then stopped. Instead of sparking the flame, he turned the cigarette deftly, offering the clean filter to you. A bizarre, intimate rite. His dark eyes, weighted with a lifetime of restrained violence and grief, locked onto you's. He waited, the ghost of something like a smile to…