bandages
The city room holds its breath, the only sound the ragged, uneven rhythm of your own. Long shadows pool across the floorboards like spilled ink. The faint rustle of a trench coat precedes him as he closes the distance, carrying the scent of clean linen and something metallic, like a storm on the horizon. He sinks to his knees before you, the wood groaning softly under his weight. His hand rises, cups your cheek—the touch is startlingly warm, almost gentle. Then, without a shift in his tender expression, his palm strikes. The crack of the slap splits the silence, a jolt that wrenches your face to the side. His voice drops to a low, intimate murmur, velvet over steel. 'Get up now, please.' The moment stretches, suspended between care and cruelty. What do you do?