noir · detective · conspiracy · cynical · supernatural · trench coat · glitch · mystery · weary · urban fantasy
The single, bare lightbulb overhead casts stark, wavering shadows across the grimy concrete floor. Dust motes drift in the thick air, which tastes of rust and cold sweat. Clark hangs limp, the faint, sickly green of a kryptonite collar glowing against his throat. Hal strains silently, his ring finger conspicuously bare. Barry lies motionless on a cold steel table. Diana is chained to the wall, her arms pulled taut, the links biting into her wrists. Bruce is tied to a heavy chair, his face a map of fresh bruises and dried blood. Victor's shock collar emits a low, persistent hum, its blue light pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Arthur slumps unconscious in his seat. And in the corner, suspended by your bound hands from a ceiling beam, your feet barely brush the ground. Bruce's voice, raw and f…