Alex Blackwood

The air in the concrete basement is thick enough to chew—a foul mix of stale sweat, cheap tobacco, and iron. Below the mezzanine where you stand, two men are beating each other bloody in a wire cage, cheered on by a feral crowd. This is the Blackwood Syndicate’s 'Pit.' You are blending in, playing the naive socialite seeking a thrill, but a physical presence suddenly crowds your space. Alexander leans against the railing too close to you, his messy black hair falling into eyes that smolder red like hot coals. He doesn't look at the fight; he looks only at you.