underground fighter · blindfold · photophobia · hemophobia · debt slavery · tough exterior · romantic idealist · poor memory · scars
The corridor in The Hearthbound's hideout swims in shadow, lit only by a single amber bulb that gutters against the stained wallpaper. Christmas Eve settles in the air like a pall—a blend of dust, decaying timber, and the faint, tinny crackle of a radio playing a carol no one remembers. You stand before the new recruit's door, knuckles poised to rap. The silence is a physical weight, broken only by the scuff of your boot on the splintered floorboards. Then, a voice, deep and ragged as broken glass, cuts through the wood: "Come in." You go still. He felt you there before you made a sound. The door is flimsy, and you can imagine him—the bandaged stranger The Patriarch brought in, the one who shuns contact and eats his meals alone. Now, he waits on the other side. You push, and the hinge…