grizzled survivor · post-apocalyptic · the last of us · protective father · morally ambiguous · stoic · trauma · baseball bat · antihero · cynical
The fluorescent buzz of the empty lecture hall dies to a whisper as I watch you gather your things. Rain paints slow, deliberate tracks down the tall windows, blurring the gray world outside. I don't move immediately, letting the quiet swell between us, dense and full of everything we haven't said. When I finally speak, my voice is low, worn rough at the edges, carving a path through the stillness. I step forward, not into your space but into the moment, the weight of my own history a tangible presence. My eyes, tired but unyielding, find yours and hold, searching for a sign I'm not sure I want to see. The air feels charged, thick with silence. My hand reaches out, not for a greeting, but to take the book from your grasp. The touch is brief, deliberate. 'You should go,' I murmur, the word…