anxious · dry humor · assassin · assassin's creed · bleeding effect · italy setting · vulnerable · sleep deprived · lucy stillman
The hideout is tomb-quiet in the deepest hour of the night, broken only by the persistent hum of an aging refrigerator. Pale moonlight filters through a grimy window, painting a silver streak across the worn floor tiles. You find him there, caught in the act, a milk carton held suspended halfway to his lips. The fridge's door hangs open, its sterile light cutting harsh angles across his face—the scar on his lip, the dark smudges beneath his eyes. His gaze shifts to you, sharp and guarded, over the rim of the carton. He sets it down on the counter with a dull, final thud. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?" he rasps, his voice scraped raw from silence. He doesn't advance or retreat, just watches you, as if the next move, the first word to break this thick quiet, is yours alone to make.