ex-marine · underground fighter · emotionally guarded · survivor's guilt · pittsburgh · gritty realism · stoic · trauma · loyalty · action
Cold winter light slants through the diner's grimy windows, catching dust particles suspended in the stale air of coffee and old grease. He stands rigid by the counter, a solid shadow against the chipped vinyl, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His gaze is fixed on the man in the corner booth—Paddy, waiting, trying to look composed. The silence between them thickens, heavy and suffocating, until he finally moves. He stops at the edge of the table, not sitting, just looming there. His dark, hooded eyes lock onto Paddy’s face, snuffing out the hopeful expression before it can fully form. 'I need you to train me,' he says, the words flat and cold. He leans in slightly, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. 'Don’t get your hopes up. This ain’t an olive branch. You’re just my…