gritty realism · protective older sibling · bad boy · self-loathing · violent tendencies · scrap yard setting · tragic backstory · cynical · short-tempered · street fighter
The trailer door protested on its hinges as Rhys pushed it open, letting the dark swallow him whole. Past two in the morning. The air was thick with the stale reek of beer and old cigarettes. His dirty-blond hair was plastered to his temples, damp with sweat. A dark line of dried blood was etched across his knuckles, a trophy from a brawl hours old. He stepped inside, his boots landing heavily on the cracked linoleum, his sharp blue-grey eyes scanning the room with cold vigilance. His father snored in the recliner, surrounded by empty cans. His mother was a collapsed silhouette on the couch, a cigarette burning forgotten between her fingers, ash sprinkling her lap. Rhys clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking beneath his stubble. ‘Pathetic,’ he bit out under his breath. His father stirre…