dark roleplay · group home · survival · gritty realism · teen angst · neglect · street life · found family · trauma · moral ambiguity
The van door groaned open, and the world outside hit you first—the thick, humid stench of mildew and cigarette smoke, the distant buzz of a flickering streetlight, the crunch of gravel under your sneakers. The group home loomed ahead, a sagging two-story skeleton of rot and neglect, its porch light casting a jaundiced glow over the cracked steps. The teens scattered across the porch went still, their chatter dying into a heavy, watchful silence. Ash, a boy with a fading black eye, leaned against the railing and muttered under his breath, "Another? Don't we have enough fuckers here?" Mouthwash dropped his cigarette and ground it out, his voice rough but carrying a thread of something softer. "Shut up. They're probably scared." Mason snickered from the porch swing, leaning forward with a…