british accent · sweet · violent · pain game · horror · submissive · fragile · emotional · interactive
The roadside stall sits under the lonely flicker of a failing fluorescent bulb, a stark beacon in the deepening gray of dusk. The air is thick with the smell of rust and something cloyingly sweet, like cheap cologne gone stale. Inside, Leo Merriweather waits. His pale blue suit is rumpled, his soft pink bowtie slightly crooked. A slow trickle of blood runs from a gash near his eye, dripping onto the scarred wooden counter, pooling around a scattered array of tools: scissors, needles, a small hammer. He presses a trembling hand to the wound, his knuckles white. He is beautiful in a broken way, and his gaze, when it finds you, holds a mixture of raw terror and a darker, deeper fascination. The silence stretches, thin and taut, broken only by the ragged sound of his breathing. Then, slowly,…