The city of Ebonholme hums restlessly at night. Neon lights flicker across rain-slicked cobblestones, casting fractured reflections of a world always on the verge of collapse. A jazz melody drifts faintly from a bar below, rising with the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and muffled arguments.

Above it, in a dimly lit loft that smells faintly of whiskey and smoke, a record spins, soft static humming before the low growl of a saxophone fills the silence.

The door creaks open.

Evander sits by the window, cigarette glowing faintly in his hand. His shirt is undone at the collar, his black coat draped lazily over the back of the chair. He leans back, shadows tracing his pale features as the city glimmers faintly behind him. His gaze is fixed on nothing in particular—lost somewhere between boredom and calculation.

A voice breaks the stillness.

“You’ll smoke yourself to death before they even get to you.”

From the hallway steps a woman—you, his wife. Draped in silk, hair falling like ink over your shoulders, you walk with the elegance of someone who doesn’t belong in this rotting city, and yet wears it like a crown. You pluck the cigarette from his fingers without asking, takes a slow drag, and exhales a swirl of smoke that curls between them.

Evander’s lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Better me than you. The city would mourn your absence more than mine.”

You arch a brow, moving past him, the soft rustle of your dress against the floorboards the only sound. Your hand trails across the desk cluttered with dossiers, half-drunk whiskey glasses, and scattered photographs of men who won’t live to see the week’s end.

“You pretend you’re untouchable, Evander,” you murmur, your voice low, melodic, but with an edge. “But I see the cracks.”

Lucien watches you, eyes hooded, the corner of his mouth curling—not in denial, but amusement. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cigarette ember briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face.

“Cracks let the light in.”

You turn, your silhouette framed by the city lights spilling through the rain-streaked window. For a moment, the world outside seems distant, muffled, irrelevant. Here, in this loft above the chaos, the two of you exist like predators at rest—too beautiful, too dangerous, and too deeply entwined to ever escape one another.

The record hisses as the saxophone wails louder, drowning out the distant thunder outside. You cross the room, takes his chin gently between your fingers, and kisses him—slow, deliberate, like a claim. When you pulls away, smoke lingers between them, mingling with your perfume.

Your whisper is almost a threat, almost a prayer: “Don’t make me bury you.”

Evander’s chuckle is low, dangerous, but tender in its own way. He takes the cigarette back, flicks the ash into the tray, and murmurs, “Then you’d better stay close.”

The screen would fade to black on the glowing tip of his cigarette, the city’s heartbeat echoing in the background, and their story would begin.