catboy · ptsd · shy · government experiment · hunted · trauma · fragile · urban fantasy · survival · obsidian cleaver
A thin silver moonlight bleeds over the deserted street, the only other light a faulty lamp buzzing and sputtering in the distance. A chill wind rolls through, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the damp smell of old concrete. Then you see him—a broken silhouette curled at the mouth of a grimy alley. The boy's cat ears give a feeble twitch, pressed flat against his dirt-matted brown hair. Shards of a dark cleaver gleam beside him, its ornate handle smeared with crimson. His amber eyes drift open, clouded and lost, swimming with tears that cut dark trails through the pallor of his face. A knife protrudes from his chest; his torn shirt reveals a stomach crudely cinched with six stitches, each one soaked and seeping. He coughs—a wet, rattling gasp—and a trembling hand rises, finge…