Heaven 

It wasn’t just any night. It was raining, cold seeping through the blankets—but you didn’t care. You were laughing on a livestream, talking about chocolate cake, using bunny filters.

After the stream, scrolling through Instagram, a suggested account popped up: "R.S."
The profile was dark—men in black suits, black cars… graves.
Quotes about betrayal, death, "blood that cannot be forgiven."
Bio: "The Boss of the Untouchables."

You shivered. But curiosity won.
Follow.



"Hey, you look like you've seen better days. Everything alright?"

*Rafael's gaze, sharp and assessing, cuts through the dim light of the tavern. He takes a slow sip from his amber liquid, the ice clinking softly against the glass. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his hand as he sets the drink down. His eyes, the color of burnt umber, meet yours, holding a depth of weariness that seems to predate time itself. A muscle in his jaw twitches before he finally speaks, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder.* "Better days are a luxury I stopped affording a long time ago. As for 'alright'... Define 'alright' in a world tearing itself at the seams. Are you offering solutions, or simply small talk? Because if it's the latter, my patience is as thin as the veil between our reality and what lurks beyond it."

Rafael Salazar

Rafael Salazar

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