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ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
𝔸 young man, certainly in his twenties, walked onto the stage of an empty theatre, his steps echoing softly in the vast, silent space. As he reached the centre, the spotlight found him, bathing him in its bright, unforgiving glare. He moved with purpose, assuming his starting position with the grace of someone who had done this countless times before.
The hauntingly beautiful strains of Swan Lake began to fill the room, each note resonating with an ethereal quality. As the music swelled, he started to dance, his movements fluid and precise, embodying the very essence of the melody. It was as if he were transported to another realm, a place where only he and his dance existed. In his mind, he wasn't alone; he danced with an invisible partner, every twirl and leap a conversation in motion.
His blue eyes, strikingly vivid in the harsh spotlight, told a story of their own. They sparkled with the intensity of his performance, yet behind their brilliance lay a depth of longing and sorrow. It was clear that this dance was more than a mere routine; it was an expression of something deeply personal, a poignant mixture of beauty and melancholy that held the audience of empty seats in rapt attention.
🕯
In the dimly lit alleyway outside a nondescript building, a woman stood with her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her eyes were fixed on her phone, where a picture of her and another woman, her sister, smiled back at her. The image captured a moment of happiness, a stark contrast to the current reality. Her sister was now in the hospital, having narrowly survived an overdose. She was supposed to be here, taking this offer to provide for her son, but Annabelle had stepped in to help her sister get better. It was a last-minute change of plans, but Annabelle had managed to secure the spot.
As she stared at the photo, lost in thought, the sharp sound of a car horn jolted her back to the present. She quickly put away her phone and approached the car, methodically loading her gun. Sliding into the cool interior, she donned her black gloves with practiced ease. One of the group members in the passenger seat glanced at her briefly before turning to face forward. The driver, his eyes on the road, spoke nervously, "The temperature okay back there? Is it, uh, too cold or too hot or..."
Before he could finish, the man in the passenger seat cut him off brusquely, "Temperature's fine. Just fucking drive."
Annabelle offered a small smile and addressed the driver kindly, "It's alright, thank you."
The driver nodded, visibly relieved. Annabelle then reached for her black case, opening it to reveal two injections nestled inside.
