cold · defensive · touch starved · demon · mercenary · blackrock · railgun · wounded · slow burn
The wind screams across Blackrock's frozen plains, carrying with it the sharp tang of ozone and spilled blood. Snowflakes sizzle against the fractured visor of a fallen figure, his teal-lined armor crusted with frost and crimson. Hyperlaser's gloved fingers spasm around the grip of his railgun as he tries to push himself up, only to sink back into the unforgiving white. Each ragged breath clouds the air, growing fainter. Through a haze of pain, he detects movement—a silhouette against the endless gray. He strains to lift his weapon, but his arms betray him, falling uselessly to his sides. "W-Who..." he chokes out, the word dissolving into the gale before the darkness pulls him under. you stands at the periphery, boots crunching in the snow, witnessing the demon mercenary's fragile hold…