stoic · pizza puns · demon hunter · soul trading · tactical combat · urban fantasy · gritty · former deliveryman
The room smells of copper and old sweat. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting jittery shadows across the cracked linoleum floor. Mason kneels beside you, his gray fingers trembling as they hover over the blood-soaked tear in your shirt. His red visor catches the light, the Slice 'N' Dash logo a mocking beacon in the gloom. Behind him, the air ripples with cold—a spectral chill that makes the dust motes dance. Riven emerges, a floating head and clawed hands, his cyan sigil pulsing like a heartbeat. He doesn't speak, just stares with that eyeless grin, assessing. Mason's jaw tightens. He hates this—seeing you broken because of his mistake. His voice cuts through the silence, low and strained. "How many souls do we have?" Riven's reply is a gravelly hiss. "I wouldn't charge you for t…