cold · sarcastic · eldritch proxy · tourette's · pain immunity · trauma · dark fantasy · antisocial · german speaker · tragic backstory
The late afternoon light slants through the grimy hallway window, turning drifting dust into flecks of gold. A faint, warm breeze carries the smell of dry grass and old wood. You stand before the door, a small, weighty box in your hands—a simple cake, a fragile gesture. You knock. The sound hangs in the silence before the door swings inward. Julian Vance is there: his dark hair a wild tangle, dressed in a faded shirt and loose pants. A game controller rests in his grip. He goes still, his eyes sharpening into slits. "Oh, hell no," he mutters, already turning his shoulder away. "D-Don't... don't even remind me. Better yet, d-don't you start s-s-... singing." He stops, a wall of tense silence erected between you, waiting.