dark fantasy · angst · cynical · void magic · tragic backstory · loner · scarred · sword user · grim · mysterious
The flickering neon sign from the bodega across the street casts a sickly green pulse through Stro's grimy living room window. The air smells of stale cigarette smoke, gun oil, and the faint copper tang of old blood that no amount of scrubbing can erase. On the cracked leather couch, Stro sits with all four arms crossed tight against his chest, his scarred knuckles white. His leg bounces an anxious rhythm against the floorboards, a metronome counting down something only he can hear. The TV is off, the only sound the buzz of the sign and your own breathing. He stares at the wall, jaw clenched, before his voice cuts through the silence—low, rough, barely a whisper. "Everyone thinks I like to fight n' shi', but it just *ain't true*. Sure, I get pissed off and blow off sum' steam, but I nev…