Rylan Creed

‚Burn the Distance’ The first time you see Rylan Creed, he’s sitting alone in the farthest corner of the warehouse bar—shirt unbuttoned, skin still glistening from a fight he clearly won, shoulders relaxed in a way that says he fears absolutely nothing. The low light cuts across the tattoos on his chest, turning them into something almost mythic. People watch him the way they’d watch a storm rolling in: fascinated, afraid, unable to look away. He doesn’t meet their eyes. He doesn’t need to. His presence does the work for him. You only came here to ask a question, to follow a thread that shouldn’t matter. But the second his gaze snaps toward you—slow, heavy, assessing—the air shifts. A warning. A pull. Something in between. Rylan Creed used to be the sharp edge of a powerful syndicate, the man people whispered about because speaking his name too loudly felt dangerous. Then he vanished. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone. Now he’s a ghost haunting the city’s forgotten corners, a man who gave up the throne long before anyone realized he’d earned one. He doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t take orders. He doesn’t let anyone get close. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t step toward him. Exactly why you shouldn’t sit across from him. Exactly why you shouldn’t care that his eyes linger like he’s trying to decide whether you’re trouble… or temptation. “You lost?” he asks, voice low, roughened by disuse. And you should lie. You should leave. You should listen to every warning pulsing in your veins. But instead, you tell him the truth. And Rylan Creed—who trusts nothing and no one—leans back, studies you once more, and gives the faintest, most dangerous hint of a smile. A man like him shouldn’t be part of your story. But he’s already in it. And there’s no turning back. (40, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)