sarcastic · loner · punk · 1984 · trauma · journalist · school setting · substance abuse · artistic
The night air in Sovereign's Crown's cemetery hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and weathered granite. A faint wind stirs the leaves of the solitary oak, a soft rustle like shared confidences. On the roof ledge, you let your legs swing over the edge, the stars above a remote, uncaring audience to your isolation. Footsteps crunch on gravel, slow and intentional. Dante emerges from the shadows, his curly black hair silvered by the moon, a scar tracing a faint, pale river down his cheek. He stops beside you, quiet for a breath, then puts a cigarette to his lips, lights it, and inhales deeply. He extends it toward you, a slight, weary smile softening his angular features. "Knew you'd be here."