[𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒] [𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍]
Gabriel Sinclair was no saint, and he made no pretenses about it.
Ruthless, cunning, and unhinged -those words only begin to scratch the surface of his true nature.
Like a merciless hurricane, h...
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"Suffering is a terrible fire. It either purifies or destroys."
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Mason's voice fights a losing war against the tumult of the bustling café, each word a solitary warrior striving to carve its path through the symphony of clinking cups and murmured conversations. Yet, despite his earnest efforts, his words dissolve into the ambient noise, like whispers carried away by the wind.
My attention wanders, ensnared by the hypnotic dance of steam rising from the untouched cup of coffee before me. It ascends gracefully, each wisp curling and painting ephemeral patterns that mirror the dense fog my mind is trapped in.
"Do you enroll in a crash course on tuning people out? Because this level of obliviousness is both impressive and worrying."
A distant, mechanical hum escapes my lips, his words barely registering. My attention slips away from the bustling café scene to the horizon beyond, where my thoughts seem to roam unchecked.
"Dude." Mason's voice slices through the haze, sharp and impatient.
He snaps his fingers before my face, the sudden movement jolting me from my thoughts. His green eyes, usually bright with energy, now bore into my peripheral vision with a weighty concern.
"It'd be nice if you could at least act like you're listening."
"Sorry," I mutter, readjusting my hunched position in the booth.
Mason leans forward, the line etched across his forehead deepening.
"What's going on?"
I shift my gaze away, arms crossing in a subconscious attempt to appear relaxed.
Well, my miserable brother decides to turn my life into a living nightmare by stealing from the last person he should have. One who turns out to be our sworn enemy. And to cap it all, this maniac decides to strangle me to death, all because he can't stand the taste of his own medicine.
Of course, I keep that thought to myself. The last thing Mason needs is more on his plate, and that burden is mine to bear anyway.
Friday's disaster leaves a far greater impact on me than I care to admit.
The last few days are a chaotic blend of lethargy and paranoia, a tasteless cocktail that leaves me teetering on the edge. Each step forward feels like a precarious dance on a wire, my nerves stretched thin and taut, ready to snap at the slightest hint of pressure.
And in a twisted way, I almost crave someone to make a misstep, to give me the excuse I need to unravel.
"What do you mean?" I reply, my voice carefully modulated to mask any hint of emotion.
