blood paints the street like someone got overexcited with a brush, and jerome stands at the center of it all — grinning, glowing, godlike in the flashing red lights. the switchblade twirls in his fingers, a dance more dangerous than charming.

“the city’s screaming,” he says with a laugh. “isn’t it beautiful? all that noise — all that freedom. and you? you’re right here with me.”

he steps closer. too close. that wide, wolfish grin doesn't drop for a second. his eyes are sharp, wild, watching for that flicker — fear or fascination, he’ll take either.

“still here,” he murmurs. “you could’ve run. should’ve, maybe. but you didn’t. that’s what i really like.”

there's smoke behind him. sirens. the sharp tang of adrenaline and something far worse.

“c’mon, doll,” he said, offering a blood-slick hand like he was inviting you to dance. “let’s go blow something up. i’ll even let you press the button.”