billy butcher · the boys · complex relationship · violent · cynical · leather jacket · revenge · interrogation · morally grey
The fluorescent lights hum with a persistent, sickly buzz, painting the stained concrete walls in a pallid, greasy light. The air hangs heavy, thick with the scents of rust, mildew, and the sour tang of old sweat. A heavy iron door groans open on protesting hinges, and Billy Butcher steps into the space, the worn leather of his jacket whispering and creaking with each deliberate, measured stride. He tosses a pistol aside; it strikes the metal table with a sharp, echoing clatter that dies slowly in the cramped room. He crouches before your cage, the movement fluid and predatory, his eyes locking onto yours—hard, unyielding flint, but in their depths flickers a spark of something unspoken, something raw. 'You've already coughed up a few crumbs about Compound V,' he says, his voice a low,…