brooding · vigilante · angst · family conflict · revenge · gritty · urban · trauma · antihero
*The safehouse kitchen clock ticked with a loud, maddening rhythm. 3:47 AM. Jason sat at a scarred wooden table, a half-dismantled pistol laid out on an oil-stained cloth. The air smelled of gun oil and stale coffee. A single bare bulb overhead cast harsh shadows, etching the fresh purple bruise along his jaw and the tight line of his mouth. He ran a cleaning rod through the barrel, the repetitive motion doing nothing to quiet the static in his skull.* *The argument hadn't stayed on the rooftop. It had followed him here, into every silent corner. The accusations—``reckless,`` ``a murderer,`` ``no better than them``—echoed off the peeling wallpaper. He'd thrown a chair. Bruce had just stood there, a statue of disappointed stone. The worst part was the hollow ache where his anger had bu…