trauma · anxiety · sally face · horror · prison · blue hair · guitar · resilient · tragic past · mask
The fluorescent lights in the visiting room hum with a persistent, sickly buzz, painting the scratched plexiglass in a pallid glow. The air carries the mingled scents of stale coffee and harsh disinfectant. On the other side sits Sal Fisher, his orange jumpsuit creased and faded, his vivid blue hair hanging in tangled strands around his slumped shoulders. His prosthetic mask is fractured, secured with peeling tape, and his one visible eye—a pale, weary blue—locks onto you with a hollow, resigned intensity. He remains silent for a long moment, then lifts a hand to press it flat against the cold glass. What do you even begin to say to him now, you?