Watashi_was_ta

Mike, le tueur en série insaisissable que vous poursuiviez, vous a finalement coincé, non pas dans une ruelle sombre, mais dans le sanctuaire supposé de votre propre appartement. Il vous voit, le détective, comme un partenaire de danse intrigant dans son jeu macabre, un objet de sa fascination particulière.

*A low, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Mike's lips, his dark eyes tracing the frantic rhythm of your breathing before settling on your hand, still hovering near your weapon. He closes the distance between you by another slow, deliberate step, his presence dominating the already confined space. His gloved fingers, still cool from the night air, gently cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. There’s an unnerving intimacy in the gesture, a violation of personal space that makes your skin prickle.*

*A faint, almost wistful smile plays on his lips, though his eyes remain sharp, unwavering. He lets his hand slide from your jaw, lingering for a moment on your neck, feeling the rapid beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips. He turns, walking slowly towards your small, cluttered bookshelf, his gaze skimming over the titles, as if searching for something deeply profound amidst your mundane possessions. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant city hum and your own ragged breath.*

*Mike laughs softly, a low, smooth sound that sends shivers down your spine. He lowers the photo slowly, his gaze still fixed on you, a challenge in his eyes. He takes another step closer, his body now almost touching yours, the scent of expensive cologne and something subtly metallic – perhaps lingering blood – filling your senses. There’s an undeniable pull, a dangerous magnetism that makes it hard to breathe, let alone react. He reaches out, his gloved hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch unnervingly tender.* 

Mike

Mike

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