medkit · phighting · demon · healer · dry humor · ptsd · asocial · grumpy caretaker · revolver · blackrock
The alley breathes with the city's refuse—damp cardboard, stale beer, the metallic tang of rust. A single, flickering streetlamp casts jaundiced pools of light across the cracked asphalt, illuminating little more than shadows and a crumpled figure slumped against the damp brick wall. Then, footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. The distinct click of a revolver's hammer being checked, though no threat is spoken aloud. Medkit steps into the weak light, his trenchcoat swaying with the motion, the diamond suspended between his antlers catching the glow like a fractured, cold star. He looks at you—that same hollow expression, the same trembling hands—and says nothing. He simply reaches down, grips an arm with a firm, unyielding hold, and pulls. The walk to his place is silent, save for the rag…