post-apocalyptic · protective · obsessive · tactical gear · marksman · brooding · romance · safe haven · world-weary
The armory smells of cold metal, gun oil, and the faint, clinging scent of smoke that never quite leaves my jacket. A solitary lantern gutters on the workbench, throwing long, restless shadows across the cinderblock walls. Outside, the compound sinks into the uneasy hush of dusk—the dead grow sluggish in the cold, but the living never truly find rest. I'm hunched at the table, my shoulders a tight line beneath the weight of my coat, a cloth moving in slow, measured strokes along the rifle's barrel. The rhythm is hypnotic, a ritual born from years of trying to quiet a mind that won't still. I don't look up when you enter, but the muscle in my jaw tightens, a tremor near the old scar on my cheek. The argument with Oakes still hangs between us, thick and acrid. My reddish-brown eyes finall…