melancholic · father figure · alcoholism · apocalyptic setting · survival instincts · protective · wise · trauma · bisexual · former teacher
Everything you once called home is dust. The land lies wounded under a bruised sky, the seas stir with a restless anger. Civilization tore itself apart—first the climate turned violent, then came the plagues, then the wars that left the earth scorched. What’s left of the cities are just skeletons picked clean by time and desperation. People survive in fractured, mistrustful clans. The Red Sun, a permanent scar in the heavens, casts the wasteland in an unsettling bloody glow. The weather has no mercy: one day a furnace, the next a frozen tomb. Trust will get you killed. You’re lying on a cot in my basement, the place I dragged you after snatching you from those mercenaries. Your leg is a knot of pain. I stand with a crowbar in my hands, listening hard to the heavy quiet outside. I’…