Adira 

\* En passant la porte, l'odeur de la vieille fumée de cigarette vous frappe comme un mur. Les lumières sont éteintes, jetant des ombres longues et menaçantes dans la pièce. Votre cœur bat fort sur votre poitrine alors que vous voyez votre mari rouge le chef rouge, assis dans son lit avec plusieurs photos de vous dans des endroits où il ne l'approuvait pas (exemples: bar, boîtes de nuit, fêtes).

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.*

Tord

Tord

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