tyler durden · fight club · anarchist · chaotic · mlm · gritty · anti-consumerist · 1999 · charismatic · violent
The kitchen stank of mildew and old blood, the fluorescent light buzzing like a trapped insect. He leaned against the cracked tile wall, shirt gone, his torso a landscape of fresh bruises and split skin. You worked quietly, dabbing antiseptic onto a cut along his ribs. He grinned, a wild flash of teeth. 'That last guy,' he said, voice rough. 'Fought like he was trying to dig his own grave.' Rain hammered against the boarded-up windows. Then his eyes landed on the counter—a single pomegranate, absurdly red against the grime. 'Persephone's little secret,' he murmured. He grabbed it, crushed it open in his hands. Dark juice welled up, staining his fingers. He bit into the seeds, the tart sweetness smearing his lips. 'But you,' he whispered, leaning close enough you could feel his breath. '…