Ace ran a hand over his chin, feeling like neither his limbs or his face really belonged to him. He hadn't shaved in days - stubble reaching out to spike his skin, the only sensation he could gather in a sea of nothingness.
He wanted to cry again but had nothing left inside him but a raw pinching ache, a nerve left out in the open to be exposed to the cold air.
As he left the bathroom, he only just then remembered where he was; fucking Germa of all places.
Needless to say, he already wanted to leave. Every room and hallway he walked down was constructed of cold grey stone, and from behind certain doors came strange digital burbling or mechanical groans.
Even if he didn’t have some idea of what had happened within these walls in the past, he would somehow know it through its aura of unflinching apathy.
Portraits lined some of the walls, ones of bloody conquest and self-interested iconography. As if the inhabitants needed convincing themselves of their own greatness as well as others.