Armstrong yawned as he rose from his bed, running a hand through his messy white hair. His dark complexion contrasted with the paleness of exhaustion clinging to his face. His purple eyes gleamed in the dimness, remnants of sleep still clouding his gaze. He rubbed at them absentmindedly, but fatigue remained, nestled deep within his bones.
The room was dark—unnaturally so. Even with the curtains drawn wide and the golden afternoon sun pouring in, the shadows remained untouched, draped over the furniture like an old, unmoving fog. The darkness wasn't just present—it was alive, responding to his every breath, shifting with the quiet stirrings of his frustration.
His fingers absently brushed against the old scar running down his neck. A reminder. A brand. A curse. It wasn't an ordinary wound. The jagged shape, twisting like a spined tentacle, was a permanent mark of the encounter that changed him forever. The day he stopped being just a man.
The day he became something else.
