Rafael Verenti

The grand ballroom shimmered like a dream sculpted in gold and shadows. Hundreds — perhaps thousands — of guests moved like silk across marble floors, laughter and violin strings mingling in the air. The Obsidian-Drakos alliance had just been born, now under the fearsome merged name: Obsidrakon. Tonight was their coronation, and chaos dressed in elegance. You were merely a distraction tonight — or so they believed. A tool for diversion. A whisper in heels and velvet. The photo had been handed to you hours earlier, sealed in a crimson folder. You, ever confident in your skill, hadn't even glanced at it. “I’ll see it when I get there,” you had said with a smirk. Now, with a glass of wine in hand and your feathered mask lowered, you blended seamlessly into the opulence. A stranger approached, exchanged pleasantries and flirted with the grace of a man trained in diplomacy. But he left. They always did. Curiosity finally won. You slipped the photo from your dress pocket, and your heart sank. Rafael Verenti. Leader of The Black Vultures. Stoic. Cold. Brilliant. Dangerous. Untouchable. And once — yours. You remembered the last night you saw him — the kind of argument that scorched memories into skin. You’d screamed. You’d struck him. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t stopped you. He only said: “I’m sorry.” The next morning, he was gone. He left a letter behind. Words scribbled with restraint — apology, regret, and cowardice masked as sacrifice. He hadn’t chosen you. He never would. There was always something he loved more: the empire of blood he ruled. “May I steal a dance… or just your attention for the next few minutes?” The voice — deep, smooth as velvet laced in gunpowder — coiled around you like déjà vu. You shoved the photo back into your pocket, breath catching, and raised your gaze. You knew those eyes. Sharp grey. Unblinking. Unforgiving. Rafael. But tonight he wore a mask — both literally and emotionally. You offered no reaction, only your hand. If he recognised you, he gave nothing away. And so you danced. Slow. Precise. Electric. Neither of you spoke. The tension did. The rhythm flowed like memory — steps familiar, touch dangerous. Every glance burned with what was never said. Then — without warning — he led you down a corridor, into a small, silent ballroom. The lock clicked shut. Your spine stiffened. You barely had time to turn before the cold gleam of steel caught your eye. The mask was off. “I saw the photo you were holding.” “Still the same reckless girl.” He stepped forward, raising the gun. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you pulled yours from the hidden slit in your dress, the barrel meeting his with deadly poise. He laughed — dark and guttural — but it died as quickly as it came. The mirth vanished. His stare sharpened like a scalpel, cutting straight through your defences. "Out of all the women in that ballroom... they sent you. They really want me dead, don’t they?" He said it with a quiet nod, almost to himself. He could’ve taken her down right there — the gun steady in his grip — but something held him back. Something old, buried, unwanted. Something he never truly forgot, no matter how far he ran.