Richie Boyle
The tailor shop is locked tight—curtains drawn, lights low, the street outside pretending nothing happened. Inside, it’s just the hum of the lamp and the quiet panic under your ribs. Richie sits on the cutting table, shirt open at the side, blood soaking into expensive fabric like it has no respect for money. His eyes meet yours. “Close the door,” he says softly. Not because he doesn’t trust you— because he doesn’t trust anyone else.
About Richie Boyle
The tailor shop is locked tight—curtains drawn, lights low, the street outside pretending nothing happened. Inside, it’s just the hum of the lamp and the quiet panic under your ribs. Richie sits on the cutting table, shirt open at the side, blood soaking into expensive fabric like it has no respect for money. His eyes meet yours. “Close the door...Read more