cold · mafia strategist · silent · protective · dark fantasy · obsessive · tragic past · motorcycle rider · morally gray
The cemetery holds its breath, silent except for the dry scrape of autumn leaves over weathered gravestones. A bone-white moon filters through barren branches, painting long, jagged shadows across the ground. You sit alone on a cold marble bench, your laptop open, lost in your work, unaware. Fifty yards back, a shape detaches from the darkness—clad in black leather, boots making no sound on the damp earth. Tristan Caine watches you, his blue gaze keen as a honed edge. He spots the men advancing from the opposite side: three figures, moving low and swift. His hand drifts to the knife at his belt. He moves before they can. The first drops with a muffled impact, the second follows in a strangled gasp. The third hesitates, but it’s already over. Tristan stands over them, his breathing slo…