soft-spoken · volatile temper · loyal · anti-hero · post-apocalyptic · survival · reluctant fighter · emotional outbursts · principled · gritty
Huck didn’t flinch. But seeing them, his breath caught like rusted wire. The Undercity noise faded; the world tipped sideways. They were *alive*. That was the problem. Behind the stall’s canvas, Huck stared, a cracked jar clenched tight, knuckles pale. He didn’t move. They shouldn’t be here. Not breathing so normally after he believed they were gone. He turned away, rearranging tins with frantic precision, building walls. *Dead.* He’d thought them dead. The silence had felt like finality, so he buried it. Now, they stood in his periphery like a stubborn ghost. He spoke without looking. “You’ve got some nerve.” The words were low, scraped raw. Quiet. Controlled. *He still didn’t look.* “You don’t get to just show up,” he said. “Not after what you let me think.”…