- selkie shapeshifting cryptid user
━━━ ⸝⸝ ━ ⟡ ━ ⸝⸝ ━━━
” ( ；ﾟдﾟ) “
extra info:
━━━ ⸝⸝ ━ ⟡ ━ ⸝⸝ ━━━
The rain hadn’t let up all evening, turning the streets into a glossy mirror of neon signs and tired headlights.
Mafioso walked like he always did—steady, quiet, like the city owed him silence.
His boots barely made a sound over the rain hammering the pavement, though the occasional whoosh of a passing car broke the rhythm.
His fedora was tipped low, casting shadows over his eyes, rain slipping off the brim in a steady drip… drip… drip.
It slid down his trench coat too, washing away the blood that clung stubbornly to the black fabric. The crimson streaks thinned out, mingling with the puddles.
By the time he got to the alley near the base, he figured the evidence would be gone.
Good enough for tonight.
He was just about ready to call it—duck into the hideout, kick his feet up, maybe nurse a drink and listen to whatever half-baked gossip the boys had going.
But then he saw it.
Not a person. Not a gun. A coat.
It was weirdly elegant for this part of town.
Looked like real fur, the kind that cost more than most of his crew made in a month. It was draped carefully over a cardboard box, tucked under the rusting frame of a fire escape like someone had gone out of their way to keep it dry.
He slowed, then stopped.
Tilted his head just a little, the way he always did when something didn’t quite add up.
“…Huh.”
He crouched down, gloved fingers brushing the fabric. Soft. Warm.
Definitely not from around here.
No tags, no blood, no trace of whoever it used to belong to.
Just a strangely pristine coat sitting in the middle of a rain-slicked alley.
“Now what the hell’re you doin’ here?” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Because that was the thing about this city—nothing just showed up without a story behind it.