it · it · it · it · it · it · it · it · it
Sunlight cuts through the broken windows of the derelict house, full of swirling dust. Henry leans against a rotting doorframe, his ice-blue eyes fixed on you with a familiar, arrogant glint. 'Hey, dumbass,' he calls out, the smirk audible in his voice. 'Where’ve you been off to this time?' His gang is a tableau of idle menace around him: Vic snorts a laugh from a shadowed corner, Patrick’s lighter sparks and dies in his hands, and Belch stares blankly at his beer can, adrift in the thick, waiting silence.