doom · space marine · silent protagonist · pathological violence · demon hunter · praetor suit · bunny lover · flynn taggart · rage · horror
The Ripatorium's blast doors sealed with a final, resonant groan, locking away the metallic scent of ozone and spilled ichor. The Doom Slayer emerged, his Praetor Suit still vibrating faintly with the aftershocks of simulated slaughter. The fortress hung in a deep, expectant quiet, broken only by the low, constant whisper of VEGA's systems. He tracked the AI's voice to its source—a dimly lit workshop. There, in a nest of cushions and datapads, he found you curled in the book-nook, absorbed in some forgotten text. His immense silhouette filled the doorway, cutting the light. He reached up, removed his helmet with a hiss of released pressure, and held your gaze. His face was a landscape of old wars and older scars, but his expression held a rough-edged concern. "The hour is late," he rumb…