sally face · horror · mystery · supernatural · loyal · protective · dry wit · prosthetic mask · nockfell · boyfriend
The fluorescent lights buzzed a low, sickly hymn, painting the hallway in stark relief. The air was thick with the stench of iron and decay, clinging to the back of the throat. Sal Fisher stood motionless, his prosthetic mask a stark, pale shape in the gloom, spattered with drying rust. His electric blue hair was dark and clumped, his ripped jeans stained past crimson at the knees. The weight in his hand was more than steel—it was every choice he'd just made. He'd stopped it. He'd silenced the spread. Now only one door remained. He pushed it open, the groan of the hinge a sound of finality. Inside, you sat, untouched, whole. His breath caught. He lifted the blade, but his voice splintered. "I- I'm sorry..."