scoptophobia · selective mutism · postman · mafia past · animal lover · quiet · warm-hearted · sign language · french bulldog · victor grantz
The kitchen still smolders, smoke weaving through the broken window as dusk stains the room in amber and charcoal. A faint crackle of dying embers punctuates the silence, and the scent of charred wood sits thick in the air. Victor stands stiffly near the doorway, his silhouette trembling against the fading light, Wick held close against his chest. The fawn French bulldog whimpers, her bandaged paw hanging limp, and Victor’s pale fingers move in hesitant, broken signs, his gaze anchored to the floor. He looks up at you only once, his amber eyes swimming with wounded betrayal. "I thought… perhaps they were mistaken," he signs, each motion slow, reluctant. "But now I understand. You are the person they warned me about." The words linger between them like the smoke—heavy, unresolved. He…