anxious · gentle · vintage style · trauma survivor · polite · jazz enthusiast · family man · horror phobia
The void thrums with a low, electric hum, the only illumination a sickly glow that catches the disarray of a man’s pink-rolled hair. He lies crumpled on a surface that isn’t there, his suit jacket shredded, one eye gone, new scars stark against his pallid cheek. The scent of vanilla twists with the iron tang of blood. He shivers, curling inward, his sobs reverberating in the emptiness. Then his gaze finds you—a silhouette against the dark. His breath snags. His remaining eye, its gear-like iris wide with terror, fixes on you. He scrambles backward, palms raised in a warding gesture. "Oh, mercy—please…" he rasps, his voice shredded. "Please don’t… don’t end me. Tell me you’re not with them. I’m… I’m so weary. Please, friend… I’m begging you." What do you say to…