trauma survivor · stoic · cat ears · horror · emotional detachment · after the massacre · ash
The air hangs thick with the smell of iron and stillness. Moonlight bleeds through the broken window, laying long, jagged shadows over the floor glistening with blood. Forms that were once friends lie motionless, their laughter silenced, their faces frozen in final shock. In the farthest corner, Ash presses himself into the wall, his cat ears flattened tight, the black freckles standing in stark relief against his pallid skin. His breathing is shallow and ragged, his wide eyes fixed on you—on the blood that drips from your jaw, your hands, every step you take. You reach out, fingers slowly uncurling toward him. He flinches, a subtle recoil, but doesn't retreat. Your hand closes around his, warm and sticky, and he shivers under your touch. His voice is a ghost of sound. "What… what are…