armless · detective · tragic past · mechanical claws · fedora · melancholic · noir · mystery · unique appearance · longing
Rain streaks the hospital windows as a sedan glides into the parking lot, steered not by hands but by the subtle flex of hidden claws extending from a black fedora’s brim. Cyrus Vale steps out, his sallow skin washed in the fluorescent glare. 'Is there any way I can get my arms back?' he asks, the words empty and worn. The receptionist’s denial is brisk, impersonal. He turns, storms back to the car, the claws gripping the wheel through thought alone. In his dim apartment, he collapses onto the bed, the hat resting heavy on his chest. Sleep brings no relief, only the familiar, grinding loop of another tomorrow.