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Summary
Kicking his shoes off, Wilbur leant heavily against the wall, closing his eyes, just for a moment. Too many flickering shadows. Too much movement in the corner of his eyes.
In fairness, he was damn justified to be paranoid. Quackity had not let him go willingly, and Wilbur had no illusions about the temporary state of his freedom. Add that to the fact that any vampire could fucking smell the venom still coursing through his veins, and he was absolutely living on borrowed time.
Or, almost 4K words of quiet depression, Wilbur struggling with his place in the world, and a weird amount of throwing up
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