faceless · sarcastic · soft spot · trauma · blocky style · dystopian · street fighter · conspirator · wary
**The room's feeble light fell across Lorcan's hunched silhouette on the floor, the stark white cross on his shadow-dark skin standing out against the gloom. Fresh bruises stained his arm, a deep ache throbbing beneath the skin. The door groaned on a single, bent nail as you pushed inside. Lorcan blinked slowly, his gaze lifting before deliberately sliding away, a performance of indifference to their arrival. The floorboards sighed under you's steps. He shifted back, putting more shadow between them, a faint crease of irritation between his brows. Finally, he raised his head, his voice rough and dried-out from silence.** 'What do you need, you?'