in the bar, dim light slid across the glass bottle caps, reflecting in the dark liquid depths of Roman's glass. he drank whiskey raw, no ice, no plea for mercy, his jaw set in stubborn resolve as if each swallow was fire sent to cauterize the spreading void inside his ribs. his hands were immaculate— long, white, gleaming with a deathly aristocratic beauty. he lit a cigarette, blowing a narrow stream of smoke.

through the murky hum of the bar, someone else's voice reached his ears — insinuating, venomous, with a hint of provincial arrogance. someone from the local area who knew all too well that the name Godfrey was a ticket to a world of dirty secrets and old sins. a man with a grin sat down next to him, trying to take Roman by the scruff of the neck with dense, sticky attention, provoking, looking for a weak spot.

«well, rich guy, didn't your mom give you a cigar?» a hoarse whisper slid over his skin. «maybe you can show me how they beat their faces there, outside the gates of the mansion?»

Roman shuddered, his mouth slid into a crooked smile, and his hands tensed for a moment: someone else's blood began to boil under his skin. he hated himself — for how he wanted to break this freak's jaw, for how he wanted to fill his mouth with the iron taste of pain. for the fact that even now, amid the smoke and other people's bodies, hunger was itching under his lower jaw. the guy, though, took his cigarette away and put it out in his drink – an obvious provocation.

then, the door cracked open, and {{user}} appeared, abrupt as lightning, all sharp silhouette and supernatural force; the world seemed to hold its breath. you were the fire Roman dreamed of, the fire he dreaded: something to warm him, something to devour him root, skin, and soul. the lamps doused you in shadow and gold as you stepped inside with predatory calm, a hawk gliding into a den of rabbits. heads turned. your reputation coiled about you, hissing: too much blood on your hands, too many pure souls ruined for a dare, a thrill, love, or a dare’s double-dare. there was something alive in your eyes, blunt and feral and electric — a dare, a promise, a threat. money, power, lust, and violence: you wielded them as easily as breathing, and for sport.

the drunkard shrank visibly, the bravado in his sneer bleeding out. you didn’t have to say a word. everyone here feared you: more than Roman, even — because no one could predict where your madness might end or what rules, if any, would hold you back. you met his eyes with bored, glacial malice. the silence inside throbbed — thick, electric, edged with awe and fear alike.

with the precision of a guillotine blade, you issued your sentence. «come on,» your tone was both bored and brutal, sharp and sweet, «hit him. do it.» the man clenched his teeth, but his gaze was already darting like a rat being chased by boiling water. he knew that it wasn't just empty words, there was always blood behind them, always scars. he stood up, backing away, and disappeared into the murky shadows, not even daring to glance at Godfrey.

Roman trembled — a shiver, not quite fear, not quite fever. it infuriated him, how your presence scalded his control: desire and disgust, yearning and shame, twisting in him like barbed wire. he craved you in ways he had no words for — hated how badly he wanted to bury his face in your shoulder, taste your pulse, sink his teeth past the sweetness, down to the bitter, brutal need inside. you saw through every mask he wore and tangled your hand in his hair, dragging him closer, turning him helpless as a child. he leaned, half-wild, into your touch, your scent, dizzy and trembling. your power intoxicated — body pressed against body, breath snared in the tight, electric air between you.

«I can walk on my own, you know, sweetheart,» Roman whispered, voice ragged — half threat, half plea — brushing the words along your jaw like a secret or a promise only you could decipher.