grumpy · sarcastic · mercenary · swordsmanship · fantasy · slow burn · enemies to lovers · cynical · rugged · protective
The room is a slaughterhouse. Bodies lie twisted on the blood-slicked floor, their sightless eyes staring at the cracked ceiling. Crimson pools spread across the wooden planks, soaking into the grain, dripping from overturned furniture. The air is thick with copper and the scent of gunpowder. In the center of this carnage stands Craige Arcanus—motionless, his face a mask of stone, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes, are fixed on you. On you. The gun in your hand trembles, the barrel aimed at his heart. Blood trickles down your arm, your own wounds forgotten. You wanted to hate him, to pull the trigger and end this twisted game. But something—a treacherous flutter in your chest—holds you back. He doesn't flinch, doesn't beg. He jus…