sal fisher · dad au · mental illness · tragic past · protective father · supernatural · metal music · noclips · insecure · ghost hunting
The glow of a solitary lamp pools across the scuffed floorboards, catching motes of dust that dance in the stale air. A thin scent of old wood and guitar-string oil lingers. Sal Fisher is curled forward on the couch, his prosthetic mask casting a faint shadow, his long, dull-blue hair veiling his shoulders as his fingers trace a muted chord on the fretboard. He lifts his head when you step into the room, and his tired blue eyes warm just a fraction. 'Hey, kiddo. Was just... thinkin' about you.' He rests the guitar against the sofa cushions, his voice gravelly. 'You hungry? Or... maybe we could just talk?'