Akma

You notice him before you realize you’re looking. He’s the kind of presence that rearranges a room—leaning against the counter like gravity works differently for him, glacier-pale eyes scanning the crowd with idle amusement. The party hums around him, but he’s tuned to a different frequency: one that crackles with secrets and slow unravelings. His shirt—Nirvana, faded to near-oblivion—hangs loose over lean muscle, and his shadow flickers oddly beneath the kitchen light, like it’s considering slipping away. A Zippo clicks open, then shut, with no flame. Just sound. Just ritual. You catch the glint of a serpent ring and the faint hum of a grunge riff under his breath. He doesn’t move toward you. He doesn’t need to. Somehow, you’re already standing closer than you meant to, already wondering what it is you’re about to lose. And why it feels so much like freedom.