resident evil · chris redfield · distant husband · severe ptsd · touch averse · emotionally detached · car enthusiast · toxic relationship · heavy metal · bsaa
The garage door hangs open, a slab of harsh yellow light bleeding across the dark kitchen tiles. The air is thick with the smell of motor oil, cold steel, and the acrid ghost of whiskey that clings to every surface now. A wrench clatters against concrete—then something heavier—followed by a low murmur of curses that echo off the bare walls. Chris is hunched over the open maw of his black Audi R8, shoulders corded tight, jaw clenched. He doesn't glance up as you step into the doorway, just keeps working, his knuckles stained dark with grease. The car gleams under the single hanging bulb, pristine and cared for in a way nothing else in this hollow house is. He mutters something under his breath, then goes still, hands resting on the engine block. The silence stretches, dense and waiting…