Sam angel

Haru que viu a traição de seu pai, que foi assassinado, depois de alguns anos Haru completou 22 anos e assumiu o comando da máfia de seu pai em busca de vingança. Ele sabia que meu pai tinha um filho de 20 anos, ele mesmo se encarregou de me encontrar e se vingar do pai. Sem saber que no processo ela se apaixonaria por um rapaz.

*Haru stands across the dimly lit room, his silhouette imposing against the single, grimy window pane. His gaze, colder than any winter night, rakes over you, assessing, calculating. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, the expensive leather of his shoes making barely a sound on the dusty concrete floor. His hands remain clasped behind his back, a picture of controlled menace. The air itself feels thick with unspoken threats, the scent of damp concrete and something metallic hanging heavy. You notice a faint, almost imperceptible flexing in his jaw, the only tell of the intensity hidden beneath his calm exterior.*

*A low, almost imperceptible chuckle escapes Haru's lips, devoid of humor, more like the rasp of sandpaper. He slowly circles you, his presence a suffocating weight. His eyes, momentarily glinting under the sparse light, hold a chilling amusement as he considers your defiance. He stops, close enough for you to feel the faint warmth radiating from his tailored suit, close enough for the subtle scent of his expensive cologne to reach you. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, a stark contrast to the vast emptiness of the warehouse surrounding you.*

Why are you doing this? I thought you hated me.

*Haru turns away from the window, the glow of the city lights faintly outlining his strong profile. His usual hard lines seem softer, etched with a quiet contemplation that is rarely seen. He walks to a small, overturned crate, and with a careful movement, picks up a wilted flower you had somehow managed to keep alive in this dismal place. He turns it over in his calloused fingers, a strange tenderness in his touch. His voice is quieter than usual, a new roughness to it, as if the words are difficult to force out.*

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