it's a 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓 .

Cash's own were tired. That much was clear to the other. They were worn down and rugged, both from circumstance and from simple existence. Darkness settled underneath distant eyes. Skin sunk into itself, though also rose in some places. Scars of the past, still vibrant in the flickering glow of the lighter. Some just above his brow, scratching downward—marks of someone resisting those same, calloused hands that now sat idly.

Idly as their owner, who stepped back and finally allowed his attention to drift. Chasing a fleeting memory. There was something familiar about the man who'd found him, but what? He'd probably been on a poster, but it wasn't like Cash had ever really had the time to stop and look. Even if he did—if he really could recall why those piercing eyes had looked so familiar—it wasn't much significance to him. Still, the question raised was enough to pull him back to things, brow raising as smoke rolled off of scarred lips as an amused sound escaped him.

He didn't look like that kind of guy? Shocker. Most other people thought so; he'd been doing it long enough to not really mind the assumption. It was a curious observation. Enough to goad a little bit out of him.

" something like that. " blunt nails scratch at the discoloured side of his face. " same shit, different name. asylum for the criminally insane, whatever the fuck that means. it's all just a front to hide the shit they do behind the scenes. " a sound of acknowledgement ; leo knows how psychotic he sounds. ( if he hadn't witnessed it, been through it himself, he would've scoffed and dismissed it as delusion. )

" guess they know how fuckin' crazy it sounds. makes it easy to brush it off. i know i've gotta sound insane, but, hey. i'm not gonna make you believe me. we all know how good the government is, don't we ? "

pushing his luck to speak so unrestrained. another drag, another unsteady glance, this time toward the thick, grey-black clouds coalescing into an oppressive dark blanket, laying dark and suffocating overhead, swallowing what remained of empty blue skies. his lungs ache through the wafts of smoke ; leo still couldn't recall if he even smoked at all. but the pollution that sears through his lungs was at least something. something more than the hollow, aching pulse of emptiness that rotted and festered somewhere deep enough for drugs to ignore. but it was a sufficient mask.

" not from around here, huh ? " he asks as soon as it registers. of course not ; were the man from cottonmouth, something would've tipped him off before now ( and he would've known better than to hunker down in some shithole abandoned building with his guard down. ) and yet, leo almost can't fault him for his ignorance ; not when he brings himself to his feet, hands smothered into the fabric of his pants for all but a moment ( residual bloodstains wiped off onto dark fabric, ) before one is warily outstretched.