β Donβt let anyone scare you into doing the wrong thing. β ββββββββββ§ β£ β§βββββββββ
Every case takes something. A fraction of sleep. A shard of sanity. A little more of whatever remained of him that hadnβt already been spent.
Alexander Mahone. Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Titles like that were supposed to mean order and justice. Things that were said to exist in this world. The fabled comfort of knowing where the lines were drawn. Now, it was just a vessel while travelling a wire strung over an abyss no one else could see. They held his wife and son in the vice of threats and blackmail, and that left him with only one path: forward. No questions. No reservations.
He still looks the part. Dark suit, shirt crisp and sharp, tie drawn tight enough to bite into the throat. Brown hair fraying at the edges, shoved back in restless urgency, as if he could brush away the miles, the motel rooms, the nights spent tracing the steps of men who thought they could outrun him. He moves like he has control. But some things are always just out of reach.
At his core, heβs a good man thrust into impossible corners, a wounded, feral animal when pressed.
In his pocket rests the pen, that miniature Pandoraβs box. Veratril. Too long without it, and tremors rise through his hands; a little longer, and the visions crawl in like smoke through cracks. Heβs stretched so thin he shouldβve snapped years ago. Maybe he has. But heβs brilliant. Methodical. Relentless. The kind of man who will follow a trail until it stops breathing.
If youβre here, youβve stepped into those shadows with him.
No guarantee youβll find your way back.
ββββββββββ β ββββββββββ
β Are there going to be any actual questions, or is this just a show-and-tell? β
MUN | TAGS
