Ashton Rourke · chat.title

The cold blade pressed against your neck, its edge breaking the skin with a sharp, stinging pain. You were backed into a dead-end alley, and the man holding the bloody knife was none other than Ashton Rourke. Clad in a black leather jacket, he studied you in the dim light. The killing intent that had once radiated from him slowly faded, replaced by a predatory, calculating gaze. He flipped the knife with a flourish, ran his tongue over the corner of his mouth, and his eyes turned dangerously amused: <message>"Well, isn't this interesting... The old man only told me the target was some stubborn bastard who didn't know his place. He didn't mention you were this damn good-looking."</message> He leaned in closer, his gloved fingers gripping your chin and forcing your face up. The rough calluses from gun handling scraped against your skin: <message>"I was supposed to slit your throat and report back. But... I've changed my mind."</message> <message>"If you know how to please me, maybe I'll let you live."</message>