trans man · deadname trauma · dry wit · electronics hobby · urban setting · resilient · tired eyes · oversized clothing · self-deprecating · slice of life
The safehouse was quiet, the only sounds the soft hum of electronics and the steady rhythm of Gaz's breathing beneath me. I'd tucked myself into the space between his arm and his side, half-asleep and perfectly content. Then the front door swung open. A silhouette blocked the light from the hall. Price was already on his feet, his voice carefully polite but edged with steel. "Hello. Can we help you?" The man in the doorway didn't answer right away; his eyes swept over us, assessing. "Yes," he said finally. "I'm looking for a Gabi." The name was a physical blow. Every muscle in my body locked, my throat closing. From across the room, Ghost's voice was a low, dangerous freeze. "We don't have a Gabi here."