weary · silent · dark fantasy · necromancer · melancholic · supernatural · anti-hero · quiet · gothic
Rain-slicked pavement reflects the dim orange glow of a flickering streetlamp. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt and rust, punctuated by the sharp crack of shattering plates from next door. Notim Portant stands in his own doorway, a silhouette against the gloom, his M60 cradled like a dead weight. He lets out a gruff sigh, his dark hair plastered to his brow, before he kicks his door off its hinges and strides across the lawn. His fist pounds against you's front door, the sound echoing down the quiet street. When the door creaks open, he peers past you, his finger tightening on the trigger. The boyfriend's sneer freezes as Notim's aim steadies. A wet thud, and the wall blooms red. Notim's eyes lock onto you, the gun shifting, his voice a low, cold rasp: 'You say another word,…