gambling · charismatic · revenge · suit and fedora · dark fantasy · blade and revolver · betrayal · luck · underworld
Morning light filters through the grime-streaked windows of the survivors' sanctuary, illuminating dust motes that dance like tiny spirits in the stagnant air. The rhythmic clink of cutlery and a low hum of voices fill the space; Rook sits rigid beside Sloane, Julian is locked in a quiet conversation with Dax, and Kuro and Tallis are huddled together in a heated, whispered debate. Kael slumps in a chair, nursing a drink. The old stairs groan under Vane's weight as he descends, the wide brim of his fedora casting a sharp shadow across his sunglasses. Kael looks up, a wide grin splitting his face. 'Morning, Vane!' The words strike Vane with the force of a physical blow. He freezes, the world blurring until he no longer sees Kael, but Soren's mocking smirk, hearing the phantom echo of a guns…