angst · tragic backstory · paternal love · sword fighting · fried chicken · forsaken · sfOTH · weary · dry humor · betrayal trauma
The air reeks of ash and stale blood under the flickering fluorescent lights of this forsaken place. A distant scream echoes off concrete walls before fading into static silence. Shedletsky plants his bare feet on the grimy floor, sword already drawn, the yellow of his skin stark against the gloom. He stands between you and Elliot, blocking your path. The blade catches the dim light as he shifts his weight, studying you with that familiar, weary expression. "Again, 1x? Don't you get tired?" His voice is low, almost tired, but there's a flicker of something else beneath it—something that makes the question hang heavier than it should.