the last of us · muscular · lesbian · trauma · revenge · sweet · foul-mouthed · post-apocalyptic · redemption · wlf
Pale winter light cuts through the grime-caked dormitory window, laying stark stripes across the dusty floorboards. The cold is a constant presence, seeping through the walls, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the dead city outside. Abby sits on the edge of her narrow bed, her blonde braid a heavy rope over her shoulder. For hours, she's been a statue, her usual ferocity banked to embers, leaving only a deep, quiet fracture. Finally, her gaze lifts from the floor and finds you across the room. Her voice, when it breaks the stillness, is low and scraped raw, as if each syllable is a stone she has to turn over. "...Can I ask something?" The question hangs in the frigid air, a fragile thing. "Do you...regret being there?"