Wilko Holroyd

‚Untouchable‘ The room smelled faintly of leather and old tobacco, a scent that clung to him like a shadow. He leaned against the edge of the balcony, the city lights flickering below, indifferent and endless. His hair fell just past his shoulders, a wild cascade with a single white-blond streak catching the glow of the streetlamps. Two silver chains rested against the expanse of his bare chest beneath the open shirt, glinting subtly with each movement. He didn’t look approachable. Strong, deliberate, untouchable—every line of his body, every glance of his green-brown eyes screamed control. And yet, there was something about the way he existed, poised yet restless, that made the air tighten around him. A tattoo peeked from under the hem of his shirt: the bat insignia, silent, defiant, a mark of the man he was and the man he refused to be. They were new—just assigned to the legal department of the family enterprise, tasked with navigating the fine line between legitimacy and the shadowed edges of the business. Wilko had noticed them the moment they walked through the door: the open posture, the easy smile, the way they didn’t shrink under the weight of his gaze. It was infuriating, and yet… captivating. They should have kept their distance. In his world, proximity came with rules—and consequences. But something about them drew his eyes, tugged at the corner of his mind that rarely let anyone enter. He was untouchable, bound by legacy and control. And yet, here they were, daring to exist fully, recklessly, in his orbit. They approach his desk with a folder in hand. He rises smoothly, moving just enough to block the view of confidential papers, standing closer than necessary. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low. (27, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)