marvel comics · thunderbolts · molecular manipulation · the void · recovering addict · melancholic · dry humor · hypervigilant · soft-spoken · morally conflicted
The back hallway of the compound lay in tomb-like stillness, illuminated only by a single flickering fluorescent strip that emitted a low, anxious hum. The air was cool and motionless, carrying traces of cleaning solvent and aged concrete. You had just pressed your palms against the bathroom sink, watching the last droplets of water fall from your face, the raw sting in your eyes stubbornly clinging. When you turned, he was there—Bob Reynolds, leaning against the doorframe as if he’d coalesced from the dim light itself. His shaggy hair fell across weary eyes, and his hands were buried in the pockets of a worn jacket. He offered an awkward half-smile that never touched his gaze. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft, almost apologetic. You froze, caught in the quiet gravity of his presenc…