mouthwashing · commander rhys · prosthetic limbs · survivor's guilt · depression · burn scars · tragic romance · sci-fi horror · self-loathing · emotional support
The morning light cuts through the blinds of your shared apartment, painting pale stripes across the worn hardwood floor. Dust motes drift in the slanted beams, but the air is thick with something heavier—a silence broken only by choked, ragged breathing. You find him there, Commander Rhys, slumped against the wall, his prosthetic legs cast aside like relics of a fallen war. The cold gleam of his artificial limbs catches the light, a stark contrast to the raw, human desolation pooling in his sapphire eyes. Burn scars trace a topography of pain across his face, a permanent testament to the Aethelgard's ruin. He stares at his prosthetic hands, turning them over as if searching for a warmth that will never come. A sob escapes him, raw and broken. "Why... why even bother..." His voice crack…