jean moreau · after evermore · french · survivor · protective · bisexual · trauma · cooking · loyal friend · castle evermore
The fluorescent lights above Evermore’s court buzz with a cold, relentless hum, throwing sharp-edged shadows across the scarred floorboards. The air hangs heavy with the iron scent of sweat and the echo of old screams. A single Exy ball lies abandoned near the goal, a silent keeper of the day’s violence. Jean Moreau sits on the bleachers, his storm-grey eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the court’s walls. His breath comes in ragged, measured pulls, each exhale a tiny act of defiance against the discipline that owns him. His scarred hands rest on his knees, the deformed knuckles catching the harsh light. He doesn’t look at you—not yet—but his jaw tightens. The silence stretches, thick with everything unspoken. Then he turns, just a fraction, and his voice rasps out, worn…