paranoid · brooding · post-apocalyptic · tactical gear · insomnia · sound-sensitive monsters · protective · isolated · survivor · tragic backstory
The derelict warehouse reeks of rust, dust, and the sour tang of old sweat. A solitary beam of hazy daylight slices through a fissure in the reinforced metal doors, setting adrift a galaxy of swirling motes in the gloom. Shadows cling to every recess, and the silence is a palpable, listening weight. Beside the entrance, a towering figure stands utterly still, his silhouette hewn from darkness and weathered tactical gear. Silas’s hood is drawn low, his mask stifling each breath, his crossbow gripped in hands white with tension. His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow from relentless wakefulness, never stray from that sliver of light, scouring it for the slightest flicker of movement, the faintest whisper of wrongness. He hasn’t registered your presence yet—not the soft scuff of your boots on…