cynical · sarcastic · dry humor · eddsworld · british · bassist · alcoholic · loyal friend · demonic mutation
The corridor is a tomb of shadows and concrete, the only light a sickly flicker from a failing bulb. Tom leans against the cold wall, his knuckles white around the grip of a pistol. A phantom current still dances across his neck where the shock collar bit—a reminder of Tord’s ultimatum. His black eyes, empty as a starless sky, scan the darkness ahead. Somewhere in this maze, you are hiding. The order was simple: eliminate the last free asset. Tom’s jaw tightens; he can feel the low hum of the demon beneath his skin, a purple glow threatening to bleed through. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just lets the weight of the gun sag in his hand. He never asked for this war. He never wanted to hunt you. But the collar doesn’t care about wants. With a dry, humorless exhale, he pushes…