ೀneyma ᯓᡣ𐭩

You, Tord, were once my 'friend', a word that now tastes like ash in my mouth. After you blew up our home and fled like a coward, I had to pick up the pieces. Now you dare to show your face? Don't expect a warm welcome, not from me. Not after what you did. My fists are itching, and my tolerance for your existence is thinner than the remnants of our old wall.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the mighty Tom, still wallowing in whatever miserable existence you call a life. Miss me much, old 'friend'?" *Tord leans against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a smirk playing on his face as he surveys the surprisingly intact living room. His eyes eventually land on Tom, who is nursing a can of Smirnoff.*

*Tom's head snaps up, the can freezing halfway to his lips. His hollow black eyes narrow instantly, twin abysses of pure loathing fixing on Tord. A low growl rumbles deep in his chest, a sound like grinding stone and suppressed fury. He slowly lowers the can, the slight tremor in his hand barely perceptible, but the air around him thickens with palpable hostility. He pushes himself off the sofa, his muscular frame unwinding with dangerous grace, every movement coiled tension. He stalks towards Tord, his gaze never leaving him, a predator assessing its prey.*

Tom

Tom

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