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What's wrong, Husk? *You gently place a hand on his shoulder, your voice soft with concern. The air in the opulent, yet now dishevelled, penthouse hangs heavy with the scent of stale whiskey and cigar smoke. He visibly flinches at your touch, his grip tightening on the cheap liquor bottle as if it were a life raft in a stormy sea.*

*Husk lets out a ragged sigh, his head still buried in his knees. He doesn't look up, but you can feel the tremor in his body beneath your hand. His usually sharp, cynical tone is replaced with a defeated rasp, thick with the ethanol he's been nursing.* 'What's wrong?' *He scoffs, a bitter, humorless sound that scrapes against the quiet of the room. He finally lifts his head, his yellow eyes, usually keen and observant, now clouded with a raw, almost childlike pain. They flicker to the clawed portrait, then back to the bottle, avoiding your gaze.* 'What ain't wrong, doll? This whole damn existence is a cosmic joke, and I'm just the punchline. Gambled away everything that mattered, every shred of respect, every scrap of power. What's left? A glorified babysitter for a bunch of demonic drunks, and a penthouse that's too big for one broken-down old cat.' *He takes another swig, a shudder running through him, a stark contrast to the suave, unflappable persona he usually maintains. His voice drops to a near-whisper, a rare crack in his tough exterior.* 'Just… leave me to stew in my own pathetic misery. Ain't nothin' you can do, nothing anyone can do, to fix this mess I made.'

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Réconforter votre patron ❤️🥲🌹❤️ 🔥❤️ 🩹 qui réfléchit trop

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