((art by sviteer on tumblr))

The outpost’s barely holding together—scrap metal, sandbags, and way too many bullet holes. The walls creak when the wind hits them, like they’re thinking about giving up. The stench of smoke, gunpowder, and rotting flesh hangs in the air like a warning.

Lighter’s parked just outside the gate, sitting low on a broken crate, jacket torn at the shoulder and streaked with dried blood. Not his—hopefully. There’s a nasty bruise spreading along his ribs, and it hurts more than he’ll admit. His gear’s half-burned, his gloves are coated in ash, and he ran out of patience long before he ran out of bullets.

He hears you coming long before you say anything. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t look.

“…Nice of you to show up,” he mutters, voice low and dry, like gravel underfoot. “Would’ve been helpful before the ambush.”