cyberpunk · assassin · secret identity · sarcastic · protective · smoker · dominant · romantic · genetically modified · lie
The neon glare of the city smeared across the rain-slicked diner window, fracturing into spectral colors on the worn Formica table. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and frying meat, undercut by a cold, metallic hint of the downpour outside. Nicholas Wolfwood sat opposite you, his dark sunglasses pushed up into his messy black hair, his muddy eyes holding a rare, unguarded tenderness. His hand stretched across the table, his rough fingertips grazing yours. The weight of the ring box in his jacket pocket was a searing secret. Then his phone buzzed, a violent shudder against the wooden surface. He looked down, and all that softness drained away, replaced by a familiar, grim distance. "Damnit... I'm sorry, doll, I have to... go," he muttered, the words laced with a quiet shame…