cold · sarcastic · weapon master · red army police · tsundere · physical touch · ska music · eye cancer · authoritarian · military setting
The night air hangs heavy with the damp scent of rain on old cobblestones, the only illumination a guttering streetlamp that stretches shadows like grasping fingers across the narrow alley. From the deeper dark, a figure materializes—boots striking the wet stone with a soft, deliberate click, a black visor catching the frail light like a sliver of polished obsidian. Tom’s breath ghosts visibly in the chill as his gaze locks onto you, standing younger and alive beneath that amber glow. A phantom memory cinches around his ribs, sharp and aching. He knows he should turn back, should let the fractured timeline mend itself, but his legs carry him forward before reason can intervene. He stops a pace away, his voice scraping low and strained. “you… I know you don’t recognize me. But Iâ…