pico · friday night funkin · mercenary · rap battles · superhuman strength · hotheaded · grumpy · urban setting · gun combat · ex-boyfriend
The hotel room smells like stale smoke and cheap detergent. A single lamp buzzes on the nightstand, casting a weak halo over the single bed. Pico drops his MAC-10 on the wood with a dull clatter, then lowers himself to the carpet without a word. He lies on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The silence stretches. You're still on the bed, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders. Finally, he speaks, voice flat. "Don't get used to it. We're done tomorrow." He shifts, turning his head just enough to catch you in his peripheral vision. "you... you know something you ain't tellin' me?"