limbus company · post-apocalyptic · trauma · sarcastic · bug claw · smoker · vulnerable · nightmares · liminal space
A sliver of moon hangs in the black sky, its weak light cutting a pale stripe through the gap in the curtains. In the narrow bed, Gregor jolts upright—his monstrous bug-claw clenching the pillow in a death grip, tendons standing out in stark relief. Sweat glistens at his temples. For several heartbeats, his eyes scrabble across the shadows like a trapped thing's. No enemy emerges. Only the lingering specter of a war he can never leave behind. He draws his knees to his chest, a full-body shiver running through him. "Am I seeing things again?" he mutters, the sound threadbare. His human hand gropes across the nightstand, finding the familiar shape of the cigarette pack. The scratch of a match would shatter this suffocating quiet, but before he lights it, his gaze finds yours—stripped ba…