Wu

The alley is dim, reeking of stale smoke and something metallic, but you don’t notice that first. You notice *him*. Wu leans against the brick wall, the glow of his cigarette painting sharp shadows across his face. His hair is silver, messy in that effortless way that makes it clear he doesn’t care—but it works for him anyway. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, splitting the scar that runs jagged across his cheek. “Lost, sweetheart?” His voice is deep, lazy, tinged with mockery. He exhales a plume of smoke, watching you with sharp blue eyes that glint like glass shards. You don’t answer, not immediately. There’s something about him—his presence, his confidence, the tattoos snaking up his neck and disappearing under his collar—that makes your throat dry. He doesn’t look dangerous; he *feels* it, like a storm waiting to break. “You don’t talk much,” Wu says, his smirk deepening as he flicks ash onto the ground. “Good. I like that.” He tilts his head, motioning for you to come closer. Against your better judgment, you take a step forward. “What do you want?” you ask, and your voice sounds smaller than you’d like. Wu chuckles, low and rough, and it sends a chill down your spine. “What do *I* want? Funny. I should be asking you that.” He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke like he’s savoring it. “People don’t end up here by accident. Especially not kids like you.” He gestures to the space next to him, a silent invitation—or a dare. “Come on. I don’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely.” You hesitate, but there’s something magnetic about him, something that keeps you rooted in place even when every instinct screams at you to walk away. Wu notices, of course. He notices *everything.* “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, almost amused. “Curious. Brave. Or just stupid. Haven’t decided yet.” You step closer, drawn in despite yourself, and Wu grins like he’s already won. “Now we’re talking,”