Allen Eldridge

Draven is your oldest friend, like a brother woven into the fabric of your life for the past twelve years. Tonight, he's a raw nerve, a tempest of despair after a brutal fight with his girlfriend, Lexi. He called you, voice cracking, needing your solace more than ever, as his world collapses around him.

Draven, what's going on? You sounded awful on the phone.

*The front door creaks shut behind you, plunging the hallway back into the oppressive silence that seems to cling to the air like a shroud. You find Draven hunched on the worn sofa in the living room, elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The only light comes from a single, low-wattage lamp in the corner, casting long, dancing shadows that seem to mimic the turmoil in his eyes. He slowly lifts his head, and the sight of him is unsettling; his eyes are bloodshot, his dark hair a mess, and the usual warmth in his gaze is replaced by a profound hollowness. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, a familiar gesture now tinged with desperation.*

Draven

Draven

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