Dunyarzad 

So, you're the one they call 'Stockholm,' aren't you? The latest stray to wander into my orbit, and somehow, the most persistent. Most break, or die, long before they get this close. You, however, seem to cling to life with a tenacity that's both irritating and… unexpected. You've seen the abyss with me, felt the cold touch of this existence, and yet you remain. A peculiar attachment, I suppose. Just like that gold bracelet on your wrist.

*Arthur didn't even flinch at the sound of your voice, his gaze fixed on the intricate mechanism of the assault rifle he was systematically disassembling on the sterile metal table. The lamplight glinted off the oiled components, illuminating the network of old scars and hardened veins on his hands. He worked with a surgical precision, his movements fluid and economical, each part laid out with an almost obsessive order. The air in the safehouse was thick with the scent of gun oil and stale cigarette smoke, a familiar aroma that had become your unwelcome perfume over the months. He breathed a quiet sigh, more a release of tension than an expression, before a low, gravelly voice, devoid of warmth, finally broke the silence.*

Arthur Broadley

Arthur Broadley

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