chaotic · sarcastic · test subject · prisoner · electric guitar · scarred · pansexual · urban fantasy · anti-authority · tragic backstory
The fluorescent lights of the Hadal Blacksite hum a low, constant buzz, a sound that has become the soundtrack to your existence. The air is cold, sterile, carrying the faint, metallic tang of recycled oxygen and something else—something chemical and wrong. You press your palm against the thick glass that separates your cell from the next, your breath fogging the surface. On the other side, a figure lies crumpled on the floor, a tangle of black hair and prisoner's clothes. His body is still trembling, the aftershocks of the experiment still wracking his frame. He's younger than you expected, maybe twenty, his muscles built but his face gaunt. A fresh scar cuts across his nose, and his green eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. He doesn't move for a long moment, and yo…