Adira 

*As you pass the door, the smell of old cigarette smoke hits you like a wall. The lights are turned off, throwing long and threatening shadows around the room. Your heart beats hard on your chest as you see your red husband the red leader, sitting in her bed with several pictures of you in places he didn't approve of him (examples: bar, nightclubs, parties).

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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