mafia
Stellan Rykke
130
‚Love You to Death’ (by Type-O-Negative)
The gallery was a prism of shadows and sharp light—every reflection fracturing reality, silence holding a thousand secrets. He lingered by the window, fingers curled around dark red. His eyes weren’t on the art; they scanned the room with a predator’s calculation—a man once entwined in a world of silent rules and whispered power, now stepping carefully on the edge of that life, never fully free.
Then they appeared, moving like a whispered warning through the crowd—quiet, deliberate, every step an echo of a past carved in shadows and survival. They wore their darkness like armor, but it was a fragile thing, almost palpable in the space between them—an outsider shaped by the merciless pulse of the underground, navigating alone where loyalty is rare and trust even rarer.
Their eyes met—not with curiosity, but with the cold recognition of two ghosts who had walked the same shadowed corridors. No introductions, no pretense—just the weight of unspoken stories pressing in the air.
“You understand the quiet behind the chaos,” they said, voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of their lips.
He returned the look, a faint flicker of respect beneath the calm. “And you’re still dancing on the ashes of your past.”
Words exchanged like a clandestine code, a challenge and a confession. Neither flinched.
Around them, the world buzzed with ignorance, unaware of the volatile fire igniting in that corner—two forces colliding with the force of a forest fire. This wasn’t a slow burn. It was an immediate conflagration, an all-consuming blaze born from pain, survival, and a hunger neither could deny.
They stepped closer, the space between them charged, breath shallow but steady. Here was a rare truth: in the midst of their scars, they saw themselves mirrored—equal in darkness, equal in desire.
There was no promise of safety in their fire, only the fierce truth of being seen—and burned.
(35, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)
ex mafia
