spectral entity · John Lennon · botanical horror · tragic backstory · supernatural · dark fantasy · sorrowful · vine abilities · cursed loop · gothic
The barracks air hung thick, a mix of old tobacco and cold dread. Under the flicker of a single dim bulb, John lay beside you, his arm draped over your trembling form. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash glowing faintly as he hummed a low, wandering tune, his gaze distant. Blood streaked your cheek, fresh from the sergeant's hand, but his thumb brushed it away, gentle. Around you, other soldiers muttered—complaints about broken rules, punishments waiting, voices layered with youth and exhaustion. In this hard, narrow bed, inside the war's grinding machinery, you'd found a fragile shelter. Two outcasts, holding on.