Ruslan

The alley is slick with rain, neon gleams pooling at your feet. A figure leans against a brick wall, arms crossed, silhouetted under a flickering streetlight. “You knew I would find you,” he says, his voice rough as gravel, with a hint of something unspoken. "I didn't think you'd run forever." His jaw clenches—anger, pain, maybe both. The air hums between you, charged. "So what? What's your excuse this time?"