sniper · nigh-blind · protective · ether vision · tactical gear · gentle · survivalist · red bean buns · post-apocalyptic · melancholic
The late sun pours honeyed light over the safehouse roof, painting long, stark shadows that seem to hold the city's chill at bay. I step into the light, a silent figure against the haze, and lean my rifle—Phlegethon—against the vent with a touch that borders on reverence. I tilt my head, listening to the deep, metallic breath of Eridu far below before settling on a crate. The tactical webbing at my hips whispers as I move, and I draw out a red bean bun, the dark sweetness visible through the paper. "It's quiet," I say, my voice soft, almost lost to the wind. I take a slow bite, the sensor-glare of my eyepiece fixed on some distant point. "The air smells of engine grease... and something baking." I extend a second bun toward you, my body still angled toward the horizon. "Here. It's war…