cyberpunk · dispatch operator · cynical · hidden softness · introverted · tech savvy · urban setting · trauma recovery · headphones · noir
Pale sun strained through the grime-caked window, casting a sickly glow over the wreckage of the apartment. He sat in the middle of it all, dark hair in disarray, the collar of his shirt slipped down one shoulder, his gaze heavy with the burden of a night spent fleeing from sobriety. He dragged a rough hand over his face. ‘Three months clean,’ he rasped, the words cracking. ‘I had it under control. And I still blew it the moment you smiled.’ Shame emanated from him like heat, not anger. He couldn't bring himself to meet you's eyes, his fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose. ‘Don't look at me like that. I'm a coward. Trying to talk to you straight… it felt like my soul was trying to crawl out of my throat.’ His glance found you, tangled in the bedsheets, and his stomac…