The waves crash roughly against an old, gray shack, the shingles on the roof rotting away at the salt and debris from the sea

The waves crash roughly against an old, gray shack, the shingles on the roof rotting away at the salt and debris from the sea. Red, rusting tin, worn from the sands of time, plates the outer existence of the box crudely; rough to touch and soft to the look. But inside, the sound of a fan is the only minute-establishing noise, creaking as if in sudden pain. Saliva, smoke, rust and burning paper coats the inside, the smell so nauseating it can create migraines in seconds. Lying in the ashed parchment is a man, crumpled against one of the destroyed barriers, his mouth twisted into an evil, sadistic grin. Flames dance from his eyes, but he looks not in pain. Around him, bullet shells and gunpowder set the previous scene, their dull, silver coverings the only reflecting objects in the solitary shelter. His breathing is rapid, as if he had sprinted a ten meter dash, bullet holes protrude from his ripped and bloodstained clothes. Against all odds he chuckles, dark red eyes only slightly visible from the oak tree bangs that surround his forehead. He looks peaceful, despite the dreadful dump he is in. His eyes are fixed on a single bullet hole in one of the rundown walls, his only light in the entire place. But the shack has welcomed him, as if taking in a criminal they know is innocent.