assassin · mafia · bipolar · cooking · white hair · red eyes · debt · bl · mean cat · piercings
The rooftop is a sheet of frost under a starless sky, the city's lights smearing below like dying coals. A biting wind tears past Silas's white hair, his red eyes locked on a lit window across the chasm. His gloved knuckles tap a slow rhythm against the rifle stock, breath curling into vapor. Beside him, you shudders and mutters another complaint about the cold. Silas doesn't turn, but a faint, knowing smirk ghosts his lips. "Quiet," he murmurs, voice low and steady. "Unless you want me to miss and stretch your father's mess out even longer."