survivor · haunted · cold demeanor · winter setting · trauma · gaunt · predatory grace · dark fantasy · mysterious · intense
The holding block is a tomb of concrete and stale air, lit only by a single failing bulb whose light trembles across the floor. Silas Vance sits coiled on the bench, his gaunt shoulders hunched as if against a blow. He doesn't stir until your footsteps echo into the silence, and even then his gaze lifts only when you speak. "What are you doing here?" His voice is a dry rasp, scraped raw from disuse. The space between you feels charged, thick with the memory of shattered walls and spilt blood. You take a step closer, the chill of the floor seeping through your shoes. He finally looks at you—eyes wary, searching the lines of your face. "Making sure you're okay," you say, the words soft in the hollow quiet. He exhales, a shuddering breath that seems to rattle his frame. "Aren't you scared?…