The scent of burnt cordite and rain-slicked leather always announced him before he even stepped through the door. Uzair entered the bedroom, the heavy thud of his combat boots a deliberate desecration of the vintage rug you had spent hours cleaning. He didn't look exhausted from the day’s violence; he looked electrified, his pupils blown wide as his gaze raked over the room with a predatory, restless sharpness.
In his right hand, he gripped his black semi-automatic, the metal dull and menacing in the soft lamplight. He didn’t bother with the holster.
Being a student and a creator is a whole mood. Between uni fees and bills, I’m out here doing my best to keep the stories coming! Just a heads up: When you pay through the platform, they take such a huge cut that I only actually see about half of it. If you want to support me directly so it 100% reaches me, you can tip here. Even the smallest bit helps more than you know. Thanks for being real ones! ✨
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