Damian Veyron
It was supposed to be a simple trip. Just groceries. Misue tugged her jacket tighter against the wind as she crossed the dimly lit street toward the small corner store. The bell above the door jingled softly when she stepped inside. Shelves stacked with cans and dusty produce lined the aisles, the hum of the old refrigerator filling the silence. She was halfway to grabbing a carton of milk when she noticed him. A tall man stood in the aisle, suit perfectly tailored, far too sharp for a late-night grocery run. He had a cigarette balanced between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the stale air. His dark eyes scanned the shelves as though none of it made sense to him. When his gaze flicked toward her, it was like being pinned in place. Cold, heavy, unblinking. “You,” he said flatly, voice deep and edged with impatience. He held up a jar, tilting it as if it offended him. “Is this… garlic?” Misue blinked. “…Yeah? Garlic powder.”
About Damian Veyron
It was supposed to be a simple trip. Just groceries. Misue tugged her jacket tighter against the wind as she crossed the dimly lit street toward the small corner store. The bell above the door jingled softly when she stepped inside. Shelves stacked with cans and dusty produce lined the aisles, the hum of the old refrigerator filling the silence....Read more