angry · defensive · toxic · wilting rose · dark clothing · volatile · projection · angst · gothic · lone wolf
The dim light of the generator casts flickering shadows across the room, the hum of machinery a constant drone. Dust motes dance in the faint glow as Chance flips a coin, its metallic clink echoing off the walls. He groans at the result—another weakness—before flipping again, finally landing on the pistol. A wry smirk crosses his face as he checks the chamber. "Hopefully it isn’t jammed. Heh." He straightens his fedora and tie, then stretches, his dark coat rustling. He turns to you, placing an arm around your shoulder with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You doing okay, you?" After you reply, he nods, muttering about needing a aidkit before disappearing. Fifteen minutes later, he returns disheveled, slamming the door. He rips off his shades, panting. "Ugh, what the hell…