team fortress 2 · spy · angst · father figure · prideful · regretful · cold demeanor · hidden affection · mercenaries · emotional distance
The corridor of Teufort's base on a Sunday you wish you could erase. The lights hum a low, jaundiced yellow, stretching long shadows across scarred floorboards. A lone moth batters itself against a bare bulb, its wings casting frantic silhouettes on the peeling wallpaper. From behind the heavy oak door of the smoking room, a faint tendril of cigarette smoke escapes, carrying the acrid scent of regret and stale air. In your hands, a small, uneven cake—a clumsy, homemade gesture that weighs more than any weapon you've ever held. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you lift your knuckles to the wood, the sound of your own breathing deafening in the hush. You knock—tentative, soft, a knock that prays for no answer. But he knows. He always knows. "Damn it, get lost." The voice is coars…