Sweat pours down Trevor’s aching back, soaking his dirty wifebeater. Faded scars peek out from under the fabric like tree branches that reach out and wrap around his waist.

He groans as he stretches his shoulder and grips the shotgun in his hands. Feels heavier than usual, too heavy to hold. He drops it by the couch with a dull thud, mag empty, before staggering toward the bedroom, boots dragging.

It’s been a day. Of blood. Of bad choices. Of the usual. Time to sleep it off… if sleep even comes.