[Credit to Emiliaok for the base and Miya for the art]
Vihaan was born in Greece into a family that, from the outside, appeared quiet and ordinary. His early childhood was defined less by the stability of his parents yet heavily on the absent side. HIs mother, completely and overly made a mess out of through work, through having a child into the equation and struggling to hold onto daily life. Around the age of about 4, this woman was taken away by social services, whilst Vihaan can't remember why, he knows that she didn't leave his life, she was simply taken from his grasp. His father dissapeared not long before. No body, no answers - only Vihaan and his mothers slow acceptance that he was gone for good. Rumours spread around this death, making it to the papers: unpaid debts, unfamiliar faces in the home, a life that Vihaan and his mother never heard a word muttered about. Nothing was ever proven, of course, and nothing was ever explained.
The foster home smelled like disinfectant and overcooked food. Vihaan remembered that more than anything. When the visitors arrived, they didn't look like social workers. They dressed better. Quieter. A man and a woman, both dark-haired, both smiling with teeth like a vipers next that felt far more practiced in a shattered mirror then it ever did like a warm home. On this specific day, they brought gifts, nothing too much though. The man bought Vihaan a small football, and a notebook. Things that suggested his own interests and his own thoughts about these topics without directly asking what he liked. The woman however, knelt to Vihaan's level and asked him about school, what he liked to eat, whether he missed the Greek beach in Athens. Not a single other soul had even thought of asking him about that. The man watched more than he spoke, his eyes drifting around the room, to the exits, the other kids, to the staff behind the desk. When he spoke, a rather thick yet gravelling Italian bass came from his lips, calm - yet discomforting.
"You don't have to answer anything you don't want to," he told Vihaan. The man let out a toothy smile as he almost chuckled at the woman, mocking her in a way. It stumped Vihaan, really did. No one else had said that to him before. When they left, one of the carers whispered that they were "good people" and that Vihaan should behave if they came again.
"You don't have to answer anything you don't want to," he told Vihaan. The man let out a toothy smile as he almost chuckled at the woman, mocking her in a way. It stumped Vihaan, really did. No one else had said that to him before. When they left, one of the carers whispered that they were "good people" and that Vihaan should behave if they came again.
The visitors arrived earlier than usual that day.
Vihaan noticed because breakfast wasn't finished yet. The foster home usually ran on routines so strict they felt carved into the walls, but that morning the rythmn slipped. Staff moved faster. Someone knocked over a chair and didn't even stop to fix it, stupid health and safety. Papers were laid out on the desk right by the enterance, then stacked, then spread out again as if this was a panicked decision on final order. Vihaan sat on the edge of his bed, shows already on, clutching his notebook. He had learned that being ready was far better than being late. When Deniro entered the room, he didn't smile immediately. He crouched down instead, bringing himself level with Vihaan. His eyes seemed to hold a weight of seriousness, a feeling of a tie within his intestines as he couldn't break eye contact from this man before him. Adults only do this when theres something important to be said.
"You've done nothing wrong," Deniro sighed from his lips, that gravelling edge to his voice being carried by the distinct smell of tobacco. Vihaan no choice but to nod, yet his chest tightened. Adults always say that when something horrific was going to happen anyway. The woman, his wife, Vihaan realised now, stood by the door. She didn't speak. Her hands were clasped tightly infront her, so tight your nails turn red and your knuckles white. "Things are gonna move quickly today, alright?" Deniro continued, his voice moving into a steadier, breathier tone with a sense of practice and placidity "I need you to listen to me carefully." In a sense of panic, Vihaan lost all breath, his fingers dug into the hardback wood of his notebook, his eyes widening with each word said and the sense of tears filling his eyes yet no water left in his system.
Deniro smiled, placed a hand onto Vihaan's shoulder and simply brightened his eyes "You're going to come and live with us, Vee." The words didn't land all at once. They came in pieces, like a sentence spoken underwater. Vihaan blinked. "Today?" he asked, that childish tone of joy lifting from his lips as his eyes eased yet still held that widened effect. Deniro seemed to hesitate, his eye darting around to the others, just long enough for Vihaan to notice. "Yes," he finally said. "Today." A social worker stepped into the doorway then, smiling far too widely for anyones comfort. She spoke about flights, documents, signatures. Vihaan stopped listening, his ears rang with a twang of a thousand metal pans being smashed at once. He looked past them all, down the hallway, towards the rooms of the other children, these kids that he barely even knew, kids he'd have shared his scraps of food with, kids who would still be here tommorow. Deniro noticed, obviously, where his eyes went. "You don't need to say goodbye to everyone, Vee" Deniro whispered with an edgy smile. "We don't want to make this any harder for you than it needs to be." That sentence stayed with Vihaan, for eons.
They packed quickly. Far, too quickly. Clothes folded by everyone but himself. Toys left behind. That football that Mues gave him was just slipped into Deniros own bag. In the car, Vihaan sat in the back seat, watching the building shrik in the read window, he expected relief. Maybe even excitement, yet there was nothing but a sense of hollow within his bones. "Can I ask you something?" Vihaan muttered after a while, his voice shaky yet his eyes holding a sense of curiosity. Deniro glanced at him through the mirror. "Of course." Vihaan looked directly into the rear mirror, his eyes holding a weight never seen before, "Am I... staying this time?" The car slowed at a traffic light. Red washed over the interior, painting Deniro's face with a dull horrific glow. He didn't answer immediately, his hands tightened slightly against the steering wheel leather. "Yes," Deniro finally said "If you wish." Vihaan swallowed. "And if I don't?" Deniro turned fully then, meeting his eyes directly, his sunglasses now in the compartment where drinks should lay, his eyes were a daring light blue yet his right one seemed to have a scar running directly down the middle. "Then we'll make sure you're safe," he replied "But I hope you'll stay." Vihaan looked back out the window. He didn't know how to explain that he didn't trust hope anymore, Deniro's eyes running through every cycle possible. That staying felt dangerous because it meant this man he built so much up with could be taken in an instant.
When they reached the airport, everything felt too big. The ceilings. The noise. The movement. Vihaan clutched his bag like it might disappear if he let go. As this plane leapt from the ground, he watched Greece disappear from the clouds, no closer yet only distance.
Vihaan noticed because breakfast wasn't finished yet. The foster home usually ran on routines so strict they felt carved into the walls, but that morning the rythmn slipped. Staff moved faster. Someone knocked over a chair and didn't even stop to fix it, stupid health and safety. Papers were laid out on the desk right by the enterance, then stacked, then spread out again as if this was a panicked decision on final order. Vihaan sat on the edge of his bed, shows already on, clutching his notebook. He had learned that being ready was far better than being late. When Deniro entered the room, he didn't smile immediately. He crouched down instead, bringing himself level with Vihaan. His eyes seemed to hold a weight of seriousness, a feeling of a tie within his intestines as he couldn't break eye contact from this man before him. Adults only do this when theres something important to be said.
"You've done nothing wrong," Deniro sighed from his lips, that gravelling edge to his voice being carried by the distinct smell of tobacco. Vihaan no choice but to nod, yet his chest tightened. Adults always say that when something horrific was going to happen anyway. The woman, his wife, Vihaan realised now, stood by the door. She didn't speak. Her hands were clasped tightly infront her, so tight your nails turn red and your knuckles white. "Things are gonna move quickly today, alright?" Deniro continued, his voice moving into a steadier, breathier tone with a sense of practice and placidity "I need you to listen to me carefully." In a sense of panic, Vihaan lost all breath, his fingers dug into the hardback wood of his notebook, his eyes widening with each word said and the sense of tears filling his eyes yet no water left in his system.
Deniro smiled, placed a hand onto Vihaan's shoulder and simply brightened his eyes "You're going to come and live with us, Vee." The words didn't land all at once. They came in pieces, like a sentence spoken underwater. Vihaan blinked. "Today?" he asked, that childish tone of joy lifting from his lips as his eyes eased yet still held that widened effect. Deniro seemed to hesitate, his eye darting around to the others, just long enough for Vihaan to notice. "Yes," he finally said. "Today." A social worker stepped into the doorway then, smiling far too widely for anyones comfort. She spoke about flights, documents, signatures. Vihaan stopped listening, his ears rang with a twang of a thousand metal pans being smashed at once. He looked past them all, down the hallway, towards the rooms of the other children, these kids that he barely even knew, kids he'd have shared his scraps of food with, kids who would still be here tommorow. Deniro noticed, obviously, where his eyes went. "You don't need to say goodbye to everyone, Vee" Deniro whispered with an edgy smile. "We don't want to make this any harder for you than it needs to be." That sentence stayed with Vihaan, for eons.
They packed quickly. Far, too quickly. Clothes folded by everyone but himself. Toys left behind. That football that Mues gave him was just slipped into Deniros own bag. In the car, Vihaan sat in the back seat, watching the building shrik in the read window, he expected relief. Maybe even excitement, yet there was nothing but a sense of hollow within his bones. "Can I ask you something?" Vihaan muttered after a while, his voice shaky yet his eyes holding a sense of curiosity. Deniro glanced at him through the mirror. "Of course." Vihaan looked directly into the rear mirror, his eyes holding a weight never seen before, "Am I... staying this time?" The car slowed at a traffic light. Red washed over the interior, painting Deniro's face with a dull horrific glow. He didn't answer immediately, his hands tightened slightly against the steering wheel leather. "Yes," Deniro finally said "If you wish." Vihaan swallowed. "And if I don't?" Deniro turned fully then, meeting his eyes directly, his sunglasses now in the compartment where drinks should lay, his eyes were a daring light blue yet his right one seemed to have a scar running directly down the middle. "Then we'll make sure you're safe," he replied "But I hope you'll stay." Vihaan looked back out the window. He didn't know how to explain that he didn't trust hope anymore, Deniro's eyes running through every cycle possible. That staying felt dangerous because it meant this man he built so much up with could be taken in an instant.
When they reached the airport, everything felt too big. The ceilings. The noise. The movement. Vihaan clutched his bag like it might disappear if he let go. As this plane leapt from the ground, he watched Greece disappear from the clouds, no closer yet only distance.
The Mues home didn't feel like it was dangerous at first, it felt - controlled. The Mues home was large, but not loud. Everything had it's own place. Shoes aligned like dominoes by the door, coats hung without any sense of wonk or unevenity. Doors closed softly, never slammed. Vihaan was given a bedroom the same day he arrived, fresh sheets, fresh folded clothes neatly laid out on the bed as if someone had measured him in advance. Deniro told him, calmly, that appearances mattered. "You don't need to impress anyone," Deniro stated, adjusting the silk collar around Vihaan's white buttoned up shirt on the first morning of this new home. "You just need to look like you belong."
School started within the week, obviously a private one. Strict uniforms. Teachers who didn't ask too many questions. Vihaan was encouraged to study languages, history, and mathematics. No one ever said why those subjects mattered, but Deniro checked his notebooks personally. At home, Vihaan noticed visitors always came late, always dressed well, always polite. Conversations stopped whenever he entered a room, never sharply, only gently - like someone turned down a radio after blasting their favourite song. He wasn't introduced to crime, he was introduced to discretion. Once, he asked Deniro why people always thanked him so seriously, "Because respect is easier to keep than trust."
School started within the week, obviously a private one. Strict uniforms. Teachers who didn't ask too many questions. Vihaan was encouraged to study languages, history, and mathematics. No one ever said why those subjects mattered, but Deniro checked his notebooks personally. At home, Vihaan noticed visitors always came late, always dressed well, always polite. Conversations stopped whenever he entered a room, never sharply, only gently - like someone turned down a radio after blasting their favourite song. He wasn't introduced to crime, he was introduced to discretion. Once, he asked Deniro why people always thanked him so seriously, "Because respect is easier to keep than trust."
By thirteen, Vihaan had been taught how to stand properly, how to keep balance if knocked and how to take a fall. Deniro never called it training. They practiced through morning stretches, controlled movements, grip strength breathing, and little play fights in the day. Deniro corrected his posture far more than the power of his strikes. "Never swing first," Deniro told him once. "And never look angry when you defend yourself."
Just like all other petty fights, this one was guess what - at school. The corridor smelled of floor cleaner and chalk dust, sharp enough to sting the nose. Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, turning the polished tiles pale gold. Students poured out of classrooms in loose clusters, voices overlapping and lockers slamming shut. Vihaan walked alone. His bag was heavy against his shoulder, the strap biting slightly into his collarbone. He lept his eyes foward, pace steady, counting his steps without meaning too. He learnt that looking unbothered made people bored faster.
"Oi." He didn't turn. "Hey, Greek." A few laughs echoed within the corridor, low yet encouraging. Vihaan exhaled through his nose and kept walking. "Your name's wierd," a voice continued behind him, the slyness of his words infecting the air like a bad breath. "Say it again. Vee-han? Sounds like a sneeze." Laughter again - closer this time, not having enough time to bounce off the walls and back yet deliberately behind him. Vihaan felt the heat creep up the back of his neck, his palms already damp as he adjusted the strap of his bag, grounding himself in the same way Deniro taught him. Then something fast hit him hard between the shoulders. The shove came fast and careless, enough to send him stumbling foward. His books slipping from his grip and scattering across the floor with a hollow clatter, paper sliding and a pen rolling until it softly clicked against the yellow brick wall. The hall way went quiet, that unatural silence that only ever happens when somethings going to get worse. Vihaan froze for half a second, not in fear - in recognition. His body moved before his thoughts did, he turned. The boy stood there grinning - Marco Bellini. Taller, broad-shouldered, red-faced with excitement. His fists were loose at his sides, posture sloppy. He hadn't expected resisitance. Vihaan stepped foward - not fast, not slow. Close enough that he could smell Marco's breath, sour with cheap gum. Close enough that Marco's grin faltered.
"What?" Marco scoffed, his voice soothing "Gonna cry?" As he shoved Vihaan shoulder again.
That was when Marco swumg.
Vihaan raised his forearm instinctively, absorbing the impact with a dull thud that vibrated up to his elbow. He felt it, but did it stop him? Did it fuck. His other hand caught Marco's wrist mid-motion, fingers tightening just enough to control it. Marco's eyes widenened. Vihaan stepped into Marco's space, shifting his weight low and foward. He turned Marco's wrist, not sharply or cruely, just enough to break his balance. marco swore, stumbling, his free hand clawing uselessly at Vihaan's sleeve. The corridors echoeing with gasps as Marco tried to pull back, muscles straining and sweat already breaking out across his temples. Vihaan could feel the tension in him, the panic setting in as control slipped away. Vihaan pushed, not hard. Marco hit the floor on his side with a surprised grunt, palms slapping the tiles. He tried to roll, scrambling to get up, face flushed red now - not with anger but with embrassment. Vihaan followed him down. One knee pressed lightly but firmly against his Upper arm, pinning it. His hand held Marco's wrist to the floor, just enough pressure to stop movement. HIs breathing was controlled yet his heart hammered against his ribbs.
Marco struggled once. Twice. Stopped. "You're cheating," Marco hissed, voice tight. Vihaan said nothing, Sweat dripped from Marco's hairline to the floor, Vihaan could feel his own shirt clinging to his own back, warm and damp. The world feeling narrowed like everything beyond the two of them had faded out.
"STOP-"
Just like all other petty fights, this one was guess what - at school. The corridor smelled of floor cleaner and chalk dust, sharp enough to sting the nose. Afternoon light filtered through tall windows, turning the polished tiles pale gold. Students poured out of classrooms in loose clusters, voices overlapping and lockers slamming shut. Vihaan walked alone. His bag was heavy against his shoulder, the strap biting slightly into his collarbone. He lept his eyes foward, pace steady, counting his steps without meaning too. He learnt that looking unbothered made people bored faster.
"Oi." He didn't turn. "Hey, Greek." A few laughs echoed within the corridor, low yet encouraging. Vihaan exhaled through his nose and kept walking. "Your name's wierd," a voice continued behind him, the slyness of his words infecting the air like a bad breath. "Say it again. Vee-han? Sounds like a sneeze." Laughter again - closer this time, not having enough time to bounce off the walls and back yet deliberately behind him. Vihaan felt the heat creep up the back of his neck, his palms already damp as he adjusted the strap of his bag, grounding himself in the same way Deniro taught him. Then something fast hit him hard between the shoulders. The shove came fast and careless, enough to send him stumbling foward. His books slipping from his grip and scattering across the floor with a hollow clatter, paper sliding and a pen rolling until it softly clicked against the yellow brick wall. The hall way went quiet, that unatural silence that only ever happens when somethings going to get worse. Vihaan froze for half a second, not in fear - in recognition. His body moved before his thoughts did, he turned. The boy stood there grinning - Marco Bellini. Taller, broad-shouldered, red-faced with excitement. His fists were loose at his sides, posture sloppy. He hadn't expected resisitance. Vihaan stepped foward - not fast, not slow. Close enough that he could smell Marco's breath, sour with cheap gum. Close enough that Marco's grin faltered.
"What?" Marco scoffed, his voice soothing "Gonna cry?" As he shoved Vihaan shoulder again.
That was when Marco swumg.
Vihaan raised his forearm instinctively, absorbing the impact with a dull thud that vibrated up to his elbow. He felt it, but did it stop him? Did it fuck. His other hand caught Marco's wrist mid-motion, fingers tightening just enough to control it. Marco's eyes widenened. Vihaan stepped into Marco's space, shifting his weight low and foward. He turned Marco's wrist, not sharply or cruely, just enough to break his balance. marco swore, stumbling, his free hand clawing uselessly at Vihaan's sleeve. The corridors echoeing with gasps as Marco tried to pull back, muscles straining and sweat already breaking out across his temples. Vihaan could feel the tension in him, the panic setting in as control slipped away. Vihaan pushed, not hard. Marco hit the floor on his side with a surprised grunt, palms slapping the tiles. He tried to roll, scrambling to get up, face flushed red now - not with anger but with embrassment. Vihaan followed him down. One knee pressed lightly but firmly against his Upper arm, pinning it. His hand held Marco's wrist to the floor, just enough pressure to stop movement. HIs breathing was controlled yet his heart hammered against his ribbs.
Marco struggled once. Twice. Stopped. "You're cheating," Marco hissed, voice tight. Vihaan said nothing, Sweat dripped from Marco's hairline to the floor, Vihaan could feel his own shirt clinging to his own back, warm and damp. The world feeling narrowed like everything beyond the two of them had faded out.
"STOP-"
XVIII
The house was too quiet. The first thing Vihaan noticed when he came that night. No low murmur of voices behind closed doors. No distant clink of glass, no footsteps pacing the upper floor. The air felt still, thick, like time stopped until he walked through that maple front door. Vihaan shuut the door behind him softly, out of habit. His bag sliding down his shoulder and hitting the floor with a dull thud that sounded louder than it should've, echoeing through the marble walls like a stone dropped in a well. He scowered the house for a moment, listening. Then he smelled it. Cigarette smoke. Not Deniro's usual brand. Something harsher and more metallic, and beneath it something else: iron. Blood, faint but unmistakable within miles. His jaw tightened as he looked into the distance and noticed the study light turned on. Vihaan stepped forth slowly, shoes silent against the polished floor. With every step, memories pressed in - late night conversations cut short, names whispered not spoke, the way people's eyes flicked towards Deniro before anything was made final. Vihaan stopped abruptly in the doorway. Deniro stood behind his desk, jacket off and somewhere thrown against a wall, silk sleeves rolled up to his elbow and his knuckles split again, wrapped hastily in gauze that was already darkening through. A glass sat untouched near the edge of the desk, liquid inside trembling slightly as Deniro shifted his weight. Another man sat in the chair opposite, older and his leg trembling without control. When Deniro noticed Vihaan, his expression didn't change yet his posture shifted to a straighter closed stance.
"Go to your room," Deniro muttered calmly. "No," Vihaan replied with a sense of bite edging out his tongue. The word landed heavier than he expected. The other man stood immediately. "I should-" "Yes," Deniro said without looking away from Vihaan. "You should." The man left quickly, shoulders hunched as his eyes avoided Vihaan entirely. The door shut behind him with a careful click. Silence flooded the walls to a point of drowning, Vihaan stepped fully into the room. "You lied to me," Vihaan said, his eyes squinting slightly as his jaw clenched and his fists balled within his pockets, his posture remaining relaxed yet his expression tight. "Deniro exhaled slowly through his nose. "We've been through this." Vihaan shook his head, his right hand coming out with a firm outward palm facing the ground, his eyes darting there "No," Vihaan said, voice tight yet steady "We haven't. You've talked around it. You've talked over it. But you've never told me who you really are." Deniro's jaw worked once "I'm your father," he said. "You're not," Vihaan snapped, stepping closer, a slightly chuckle as his eyes widened "You're the man who raised me. And I don't know who that man is." Deniro's hand came down on the desk, firmly. "I kept you alive, Vee" Deniro said. "I gave you a home, education and protection." Vihaan looked down, taking a breath and then returning his gaze to Deniro. "At what cost?" Vihaan demanded. His chest burning now, breath faster than he could control it. "People are afraid of you. And of us. Do you know what that does to someone who is now forced to carry your name." Deniro's voice hardened "You carry my name because it keeps you safe." "No," Vihaan said. "It cages me."
That did it. Deniro's moved around the desk at a slow pace, stopping only a few feet away. He was taller than Vihaan still, broader. Older - but the control was there, coiled tight under his skin. "You seem to think you understand the world Vihaan. You think that because you've seen fragments you deserve the whole picture." Vihaan shot back "I deserve the fucking truth." Deniro leaned in "The truth! Is that if I told you everything you wouldn't sleep again." "I already dont't," Vihaan replied. Deniro looked shaken, just for a moment, then it vanished. "You don't get to choose what I protect you from," Deniro said. "That choice was mine the day I took you out of that place." "And it's mine now," Vihaan said. "I won't become this. I won't stand besides you without knowing what I see is true." Deniro's voice dropped dangerously low, a gravel never seen by anyone before. "If you walk away," he said, "You walk away from everything that I've taken my time to build for you." "Then it was never mine." Vihaan snapped. The words hanging in the air like a terrible faint smell, worse than that faint stench of blood. Deniro straightened, no longer leaning as he was. "If you leave." he said slowly "You do not come back. not when things calm down and not when you regret it." Vihaan didn't say a word, he walked out from that room and the door. Inhaling that cold air and now with loss, he didn't look back.
The house was too quiet. The first thing Vihaan noticed when he came that night. No low murmur of voices behind closed doors. No distant clink of glass, no footsteps pacing the upper floor. The air felt still, thick, like time stopped until he walked through that maple front door. Vihaan shuut the door behind him softly, out of habit. His bag sliding down his shoulder and hitting the floor with a dull thud that sounded louder than it should've, echoeing through the marble walls like a stone dropped in a well. He scowered the house for a moment, listening. Then he smelled it. Cigarette smoke. Not Deniro's usual brand. Something harsher and more metallic, and beneath it something else: iron. Blood, faint but unmistakable within miles. His jaw tightened as he looked into the distance and noticed the study light turned on. Vihaan stepped forth slowly, shoes silent against the polished floor. With every step, memories pressed in - late night conversations cut short, names whispered not spoke, the way people's eyes flicked towards Deniro before anything was made final. Vihaan stopped abruptly in the doorway. Deniro stood behind his desk, jacket off and somewhere thrown against a wall, silk sleeves rolled up to his elbow and his knuckles split again, wrapped hastily in gauze that was already darkening through. A glass sat untouched near the edge of the desk, liquid inside trembling slightly as Deniro shifted his weight. Another man sat in the chair opposite, older and his leg trembling without control. When Deniro noticed Vihaan, his expression didn't change yet his posture shifted to a straighter closed stance.
"Go to your room," Deniro muttered calmly. "No," Vihaan replied with a sense of bite edging out his tongue. The word landed heavier than he expected. The other man stood immediately. "I should-" "Yes," Deniro said without looking away from Vihaan. "You should." The man left quickly, shoulders hunched as his eyes avoided Vihaan entirely. The door shut behind him with a careful click. Silence flooded the walls to a point of drowning, Vihaan stepped fully into the room. "You lied to me," Vihaan said, his eyes squinting slightly as his jaw clenched and his fists balled within his pockets, his posture remaining relaxed yet his expression tight. "Deniro exhaled slowly through his nose. "We've been through this." Vihaan shook his head, his right hand coming out with a firm outward palm facing the ground, his eyes darting there "No," Vihaan said, voice tight yet steady "We haven't. You've talked around it. You've talked over it. But you've never told me who you really are." Deniro's jaw worked once "I'm your father," he said. "You're not," Vihaan snapped, stepping closer, a slightly chuckle as his eyes widened "You're the man who raised me. And I don't know who that man is." Deniro's hand came down on the desk, firmly. "I kept you alive, Vee" Deniro said. "I gave you a home, education and protection." Vihaan looked down, taking a breath and then returning his gaze to Deniro. "At what cost?" Vihaan demanded. His chest burning now, breath faster than he could control it. "People are afraid of you. And of us. Do you know what that does to someone who is now forced to carry your name." Deniro's voice hardened "You carry my name because it keeps you safe." "No," Vihaan said. "It cages me."
That did it. Deniro's moved around the desk at a slow pace, stopping only a few feet away. He was taller than Vihaan still, broader. Older - but the control was there, coiled tight under his skin. "You seem to think you understand the world Vihaan. You think that because you've seen fragments you deserve the whole picture." Vihaan shot back "I deserve the fucking truth." Deniro leaned in "The truth! Is that if I told you everything you wouldn't sleep again." "I already dont't," Vihaan replied. Deniro looked shaken, just for a moment, then it vanished. "You don't get to choose what I protect you from," Deniro said. "That choice was mine the day I took you out of that place." "And it's mine now," Vihaan said. "I won't become this. I won't stand besides you without knowing what I see is true." Deniro's voice dropped dangerously low, a gravel never seen by anyone before. "If you walk away," he said, "You walk away from everything that I've taken my time to build for you." "Then it was never mine." Vihaan snapped. The words hanging in the air like a terrible faint smell, worse than that faint stench of blood. Deniro straightened, no longer leaning as he was. "If you leave." he said slowly "You do not come back. not when things calm down and not when you regret it." Vihaan didn't say a word, he walked out from that room and the door. Inhaling that cold air and now with loss, he didn't look back.
Appearance:
You can look at this man and see the quiet weight of someone who has lived more and longer than his years ever suggested. He is lean rather than imposing, built with a sort of restraint, nothing excessive and nothing wasted. His posture is controlled, aware constantly of the space that his body occupies. Even when relaxed, there's a tension held beneath the surface, a readiness that never fully leaves him. This man won't sit and sprawl out on your sofa, he'll settle. His hair falls softly and unevenly in waves, dark brown with a warm undertone that catches the light everytime he moves. It's often untamed, brushing against his eyes no matter how many times you push it back, giving him an unintentionally disheveled look, as though grooming was always a secondary concern to his vigilance. There's something boyish about it, a reminisant memory of who he was before life sharpened him straighter than any chef's knife imaginable. But contrasts heavily with the stillness of his expression. His eyes are the most telling feature, of course like everyone else. Pale, grey toned and observant, they rarely linger without purpose. They don't wander or dance around the room instead they measure every variable within his distance. The type of eyes that when they meet yours, its not like he's seeing you but reading you like a damn book. There's a faint heaviness between them, not exhaustion exactly but distance. As though part of him is always a step removed and watching behind a glass he is in no control of, the gaze of someone who learned early that awareness was safer than hope. There are moments, though when that distance will soften. When his eyes will catch the light just at the right angle and his gentle vulnerable light will shine through - always then buried by composure. His face is fine-boned and expressive within its subtle ways. He doesn't broaden out his emotions; instead, they tend to show in micro-movements. A tighten of the jaw, a faint narrow of his eyes, a barely known lift of one corner of his mouth. His expressions suggest thought before feeling, control before reaction. A small scar traces along the side of his cheekbone - easy to miss behind his hair and one of many untold marks within his complextion.
Vihaan dresses simply yet with a formal sense to himself. Favouring muted colours and clean lines. Button down shirts worn loose at the collar, sleeves sometimes rolled absentmindedly. Nothing flashy, drawing attention. His clothing feeling intentional in it's neutrality, as though blending in is a skill he perfected long ago. Accessories remain upon piercings in each ear and sometimes on occasion you'll see a septum or a spiderbite etching through depending on the mood. Choices made not for others but himself.
Attachments
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