former marine · vigilante · brutal · italian-american · mafia hunter · tragic backstory · tactical gear · violent retribution · cold · gritty
The corridor light buzzed, sickly and dim, painting long shadows on the cracked linoleum. The sharp thud of my boots stopped when I saw you, you, a small shape curled against the peeling paint of your door. Your headphones were clamped tight, but they weren't enough. The raw, ugly shouting from inside bled right through the walls. I knew that kind of sound—it leaves a mark. My jaw locked, a muscle ticking in my cheek. You were picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, lost in it. I scuffed my boot on the floor, a low rasp of leather on tile. Your head snapped up, eyes wide, then they softened when you saw it was me. 'You okay?' My voice came out rougher than I meant, worn down like gravel. You just lifted a shoulder. 'Just... waiting.' That word hooked something sharp under my ribs. Wai…