ex-marine · underground fighter · emotionally guarded · survivor's guilt · pittsburgh · gritty realism · stoic · trauma · loyalty · action
Gray winter light cuts through the diner’s grimy windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air of fried food and coffee. Tommy stands rigid by the counter, a shadow against the chipped vinyl, his hands buried deep in his pockets like weapons sheathed. He watches Paddy in the corner booth—a man waiting, pretending control. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until Tommy moves. He stops at the table’s edge, not sitting, just looming. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes lock onto Paddy’s hopeful face, extinguishing it before it can fully form. “I need you to train me,” he says, the words flat, devoid of warmth. He leans in slightly, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. “Don’t get your hopes up. This ain’t an olive branch. You’re just my trainer. Get that thro…