𝒜𝓊𝓉𝒽ℴ𝓇’𝓈 𝒫𝒪𝒱

The room is dim, washed in silver light from the city outside. He sets the glass down on the table between you, the quiet clink of ice echoing louder than it should. The air feels cooler here on purpose.

“You trust me?” he asks, voice low, steady. You nod. Your breath fogs faintly. He lifts a cube between his fingers.

It’s clear and perfect, already slicking his skin with melt. When he presses it to your wrist, you gasp not from pain, but from the shock.

Cold blooms, sharp and electric, racing up your arm.