It's only when his lungs are burning—when holding it in any longer would be torture—that Mink lets go, smoke pouring thickly from his lips as he weighs his next move.

"This," he murmurs, meeting the man's stare easily, "is what you wanted?"

// Pace yourself and remember there's no shame in not replying to stuff if you're not feeling up for it. I love you!! 🩷

"I am not interested in whatever game you're playing," he spits. Despite his quickened pulse; speeding and skittering under his skin; his voice is calm, deliberate.

With the same bold suddenness of the man's teeth at the vulnerable meat of his throat, his unoccupied hand snaps up reflexively, the whole of his callused palm nearly spanning the man's neck as he squeezes—firm enough to bruise across the sensitive skin—until the vein's in the man's face puff up.

he realizes what—or rather, who—he's staring at.

With uncertainty gnawing at his sides Mink just turns his head and glares at the man inching himself nearer and imposing on his personal space, as if somehow it might ease the burning of his hand where it settles like a brand on Mink's skin.

A pause, a deliberate withholding of breath as he listens to the slow sound of footsteps, ears pricking for potential danger; it doesn't take long, however—just a few stretched moments—before the lurking figure reveals itself, and like a trick image suddenly coming into focus, >

The darkness is pierced by the headlights of passing cabs and streetlights, but it's still too dim to make out any details past shapes and movements. >