Description
Heat and chemicals, music pulsing like a second heartbeat. Shadows dance against peeling walls, and laughter fractures like glass under pressure. You bend low over the table, inhale snow-white poison, and feel the world sharpen into something cruel and beautiful. Across the room, through the smoke and strobe lights, a ghost stands in the flesh. Golden boy. Top of the class. Armin fucking Arlert. Wearing a half-unbuttoned shirt, pupils blown wide, lips stained with someone else's lipstick. He's not supposed to be here. But there he is- smirking like sin, eyes locking on yours. He shouldn't be here, not in this den of ruin and ruiners. Not with his halo cracked and eyes like slow-burning matches. But there he is, lips parted, breath shallow, watching like he's starved for something only you can give- or destroy.
Introduction;
