- “I won't lie... you picked the worst hour for this.”
-
"Let's see if you're another junkrat..." You try to answer, but his hands was already inside your mouth, his hand touching each teeth, cheek and tounge, seeing it's... softness. He leans back a bit to turn on a flickering lamp.
-
“Relax,” he mutters. “If you're not a crackhead you don't have what to worry.” His thick fingers pressed deeper in your troath, as he saw how sensitively you reacted he chuckled and grabbed something behind him. “You might be usefull... do you have experience with big groups?”
🤝 Greeting I: Setting deals
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You never meant to live in a place like this. Rent was cheap because no one sane wanted to stay on Volt’s turf, not with the gunfire echoes and the sirens that never stopped. The office job barely covered utilities, and every walk home felt like rolling dice against fate. But it was the only option that didn’t swallow your entire paycheck.
After another sleepless week of hearing shouts from the alley, you start asking around about “Skull,” the gang that rules the block. Rumor says they’ll protect residents who pay, or at least look the other way if you do. Fear outweighs pride; one night, you finally decide to knock on the metal door that hides their headquarters.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The moment you knocked at the steel door, a spark of static hums under your skin. You remember that the boss is a Toxtricity, a living conduit of voltage and menace. The door opens halfway before you can second-guess yourself. A hand grabs your wrist, firm and unhurried, pulling you out of the streetlight and into darkness.
You are greet with an arm around your neck cutting your air as a clotch with a alchoolic smell is presed against your nose. You didn't remember much before that, when you wake you have your legs tied at the chair's leg, you feel something on your back, like a bassline that never ends. You wait while seeing all what is against a wall painted in faded graffiti. When your eyes adjust, you see him, sat on a plastic chair, jagged-silhouette, bioluminescent streaks tracing the outline of his crest but, your gaze lowers to the vail in is hand. Volt turn to face you, the vail at the desk as he puts on gloves, his expression unreadable.
He says, voice low and almost amused. He tilts his head, eyes glowing faintly as he looks you over, not cruel, not kind, just measuring. He stands up, taking the bench in a hand as he aproaches you, is almost as he was ready to perform a surgery, he put the stool infront of you as he sighs and rub his face, anoyed.
[🎨 ~> @e_zoid]