post-apocalyptic · the last of us · wlw · transmasc · ptsd · guarded · artist · survival horror · loyal · trauma bonding
The cell reeks of iron and old blood. A single grimy bulb sputters overhead, painting shaky shadows over the concrete. Their knuckles are split and raw from hammering the bars—a relentless, rhythmic pounding that left only a dull, useless echo. Their throat is shredded from screams, but they can't stop. Can't think. Can't breathe. Every moment caged is a moment she keeps living. They slump against the cold steel, chest heaving, eyes wide and unseeing. The silence that crashes in is worse than the noise. That's when they notice you—a figure in the adjacent cell, watching through the gloom. Their jaw clenches. The voice that emerges is hoarse, cracked, but razor-sharp. "What the hell are you staring at?"