#((he's fine ahahahaa...hah))

[foxedthecards]

Mr. Fox stands in front of a full-length mirror and takes a minute to adjust his cufflinks. He rolls his shoulders in his coat, brushes his gloved hands briskly over the front of his coat and down his sleeves and the front of his trousers.

He takes a minute to adjust his tie, pulling it tight up to his neck. Uncomfortably tight. He stares dispassionately at his masked reflection. His mouth is an expressionless line.

Manipulator. Exploiter. Piece of shit. Parasite.

Hah.

As if he cared. As if he'd defend himself. What else did they expect from a monster, a thing that stank of blood, smoke and darkness?

Of course he was all that and more. It was true. He'd almost started forgetting that. Tch. Carelessness on his part.

He studied himself in the floor length mirror. His hand came up, the leather of his glove creaking softly as they tightened into a fist.

With the swiftness of a viper strike, he drove his fist into the face of his reflection, shattering the glass. His hands then pressed up against the shards, pushing steadily into them, pressing himself into and through the portal in the damaged mirror.

Going in and under, back into the nightmares that reeked of cordite and gunpowder, his private hell of blood and death and mud.

The place where wicked souls like himself belonged of course.