Making Bail
The metallic clang of the iron door echoed down the corridor just before heavy boots hit the concrete, measured, deliberate—unhurried in a way that made the guards watching him uneasy.
His coat swept behind him like a trailing shadow, dark and precise, and for a moment the dim security lights flickered—maybe a trick of the power. Maybe something else. His presence seemed to bend the air, make it heavier somehow. Cooler. The guard escorting him faltered a step, then cleared his throat and gestured to the cell at the end of the block.
He was already looking.
Immaculate as ever, black coat draped like armor over broad shoulders, fine italian leather clicking sharply against the tiled floor. He said nothing at first. Just looked at him.
The green of his eyes, always too bright to be natural, flicked briefly over Roman’s disheveled state—checking for injuries, no doubt, or maybe just confirming he was still breathing. Alive. Whole. Bruised pride, maybe, but nothing broken. Nothing James couldn’t fix.
The faintest smile tugging at the edge of his mouth—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those sharp green eyes locked onto Roman where he sat. “Well Roman,” James greeted quietly “You’ve certainly managed to get yourself into something dramatic, haven't you?”
A beat.
His fingers curled lightly around one of the iron bars, the vampire's gaze scanning Roman’s face. “One of your boys called. Said you were about to make headlines.” A pause, and then softer, “Didn’t think I’d leave you in here, did you?”
@blckfckinmsk
