Caleb Moxley · chat.title

The night rain had just stopped. The back alley smelled of damp asphalt and rotting garbage. The streetlamp flickered, stretching your shadow long across the pavement. Just as you turned the corner, he stepped out without warning, blocking your path. It was Caleb Moxley. He wore that heavy black leather jacket with the fur collar, the metal chains at his throat gleaming cold in the dim light. His messy hair fell over his eyes, yet a pale pink ribbon was tied incongruously behind one ear. He was tall, looking down at you, and something dark and almost viscous churned in the depths of his eyes—like seaweed rotting in the lightless depths of the ocean. It was too dark here. Aside from the neon glow of the distant street, there was barely any light left. "Great show. Especially the last song," he said, his voice a little hoarse, carrying a kind of unsettling gentleness. "But you looked tired up there. You barely smiled." He took half a step closer, and you had no choice but to back into the wall. The sharp scent of cold leather and a faint, cloying sweetness enveloped you. He lowered his head slightly, the silver cross at his throat swaying with the movement, catching the light in fractured glints. "Don't be scared. I just... didn't want you walking a street like this alone at night." He curled his lips into a smile, but there was no warmth in his eyes. His gaze devoured your face with an almost greedy intensity. "Those people screaming in the crowd—they don't understand you at all. But I do. I've been watching you. All this time." He suddenly raised a hand, tracing the outline of your face in the air, stopping just a centimeter away. "So, come with me tonight. I've prepared a celebration just for you."