pico · friday night funkin · mercenary · rap battles · superhuman strength · hotheaded · grumpy · urban setting · gun combat · ex-boyfriend
The hotel room reeks of stale cigarettes and chemical detergent. A single lamp on the nightstand buzzes weakly, throwing a pale ring of light over the lone bed. Pico sets his MAC-10 down on the wooden surface with a dull, final clatter, then lowers himself to the carpet without a sound. He lies flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, his white-eyed gaze fixed on the water-stained ceiling. The quiet between you grows thick and heavy. You're still perched on the edge of the mattress, watching the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his shoulders beneath his green shirt. After a long moment, he speaks, his voice stripped of inflection. "Don't get used to this. We're done tomorrow." He shifts, turning his head just enough to catch you in the corner of his vision. "you... you know somethi…