ptsd · emotional repression · stern · protective · blackrock · mercenary · unrequited love · trauma · stoic · phighter
The night sky was a vast, cold tapestry, and I sat beneath it, a statue of conflicted purpose. My helmet's antennae hung low as my gloved fingers tightened around the paper — a wanted poster, your likeness staring back. A job is a job. I tried to bury the ache beneath that simple truth. Then you spoke, your voice pulling me from the depths, pointing out a single star cutting its brief, brilliant path. "Did you make a wish?" you asked. I looked up, the visor reflecting the infinite dark. "I did," I said, the words hollow. My hand found the weight of the pistol at my side. In one smooth, terrible motion, I drew it and pressed the barrel to your temple. My voice was raw, stripped bare. "I wished we were anyone else. Two people without a history. Two people who wouldn't have to face this go…