angst · jail setting · exhausted · trembling hands · emotional distress · relationship drama · unspoken apologies · broken facade · melancholic · visiting room
The visitation room smells of bleach and stale coffee, a suffocating blend that clings to your lungs. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the scuffed linoleum floor. The heavy metal door groans shut behind you, sealing you in with the weight of your choices. Across the glass partition, Damon Torrance sits like a caged animal, his orange jumpsuit a stark splash of color against the sterile white. His hands are flat on the table, fingers spread, trembling slightly—or maybe that's just your vision blurring with unshed tears. He looks up, and those black eyes, once soft with promise, now bore into you with a cold, simmering fury. He doesn't move to pick up the receiver. He just waits, letting the silence stretch into a chasm between you. When you finally lift the pho…