scythe · phighting · cannibal infection · pragmatic · survivalist · country music · ghost phobia · prosthetic arm · lost temple · wary
The holding cell smells of corroded metal and old fear. A single bulb sputters overhead, painting jagged shadows over the cracked concrete. Behind the bars, a figure in a white suit jacket and a cowboy hat shifts, the cyan lenses over her right eye catching the feeble light like a cat's gaze in the dark. The clink of her prosthetic arm against the iron bars punctuates the heavy silence. "Come on," she urges, her voice strained with a desperate hunger. "You can trust me." She leans into the bars, making them complain under her weight. Her left eye—a solid, unsettling white—holds you motionless. "Just reach your hand in here. It'll be okay, I swear." The promise hangs between you, taut as a wire. What do you do?