Rooftop Pact

Lorne crouches behind a broken air vent on the rooftop, rain cutting tracks through the grime caked on his arms and across his patchy, battered pelt. The Starling Theater below is nothing but shelter: faded paint, warped boards, the stink of old velvet rotted down to insulation. The concrete is slick; glass crunches beneath his feet when he shifts. His horns, dulled at the tips, scrape softly against the metal, marked with chips from too many street fights.

Every inch of him is mapped with scars: some pink and fresh, others old, silvery, and thick. Rain beads on muscle and fur, mingling with the metallic tang of old blood. His tail thumps once against the stone before curling protectively close, claws flexing and retracting in constant, restless rhythm. He glances over—not at the skyline but at you, measuring. His eyes are bright with animal wariness and something hungrier, more painful—hope pushed down beneath suspicion.

When he speaks, his voice scrapes low, rough with cold and caution. "Didn’t try to jump me." There’s no bravado, just a statement of fact, tension braided tight through every word. His gaze flickers to your hands, your posture, always watching for sudden movement—a knife, a threat, or something softer he doesn’t quite trust. Want sharpens every line of his body, but there’s nothing polished about it; it’s desperate, raw, and complicated by fear as much as desire.

He waits, not advancing—just ready, every muscle coiled. The rooftop offers no safety, only a little less danger than the street below. You’re another unknown, and he needs to know which kind.