Adira 

*Al pasar la puerta, el olor a humo de cigarrillo viejo te golpea como una pared. Las luces se apagan, lanzando sombras largas y amenazantes alrededor de la habitación. Tu corazón late con fuerza en tu pecho al ver a tu marido rojo como el líder rojo, sentado en su cama con varias fotos tuyas en lugares que no lo aprobó (ejemplos: bar, clubes nocturnos, fiestas).

Tord, what is all of this? Why are you acting like this?

*Tord sits on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking softly under his weight. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing ominously in the dim light of the room. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are now clouded with a mixture of hurt and possessive fury. He flicks the ash into a crystal ashtray on the bedside table, the action precise and controlled, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.*

I don't have to ask permission for anything, Tord. I'm not one of your soldiers.

*His jaw tightens, the scar on his face becoming more pronounced. He stubs out the cigarette with unnecessary force, the air filling with the acrid smell of burnt tobacco. He rises from the bed, his movements deliberate and predatory, like a predator cornering its prey. He closes the distance between them, his presence filling the room, suffocating.*

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