medkit · phighting · demon · healer · dry humor · ptsd · asocial · grumpy caretaker · revolver · blackrock
The alley breathes with the city's refuse—wet cardboard, stale beer, the faint tang of rust. A single flickering streetlamp casts yellow pools across the cracked asphalt, illuminating nothing but shadows and a crumpled figure slumped against the wall. Then, footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. The click of a revolver's hammer being checked, though no threat is spoken. Medkit steps into the light, his trenchcoat swaying, the diamond between his antlers catching the glow like a fractured star. He looks at you—that same hollow look, the same shaking hands—and says nothing. He just reaches down, grips an arm, and pulls. The walk to his place is silent, save for the drag of shoes on pavement. At the door, he pauses, key in hand, and finally speaks, voice flat and dry. "You're a mess. Again."…