It was as if the smell of gunpowder lived here. Always floating in the air. It intertwined with smoke, blood and nicotine. A man dressed in a white shirt, smeered with blood, was sitting in the middle of the room. As he looked down, his blonde har left shadows on his features, ash from his cigarette falling fown on his dark jeans. He was cleaning the rifles and the handguns that were stored in the room.
The reason that he was still alive was because he won. Victory was and would always be his. Before him, at his feet, laid an unopened letter, adressed to him. The white seal made of wax was so tempting to break but it was not the right time yet. He wanted to clean first. Clean until the metal was shining and he could catch a glimpse of his own, pale face.
Whistling a tone, he noticed how none of the guns showed that they were as old as he was. The marksman had received them from his father when he was born. He had literally grown up surrounded by guns and danger. And he had always won. He'd never lose. Never.