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✯☾✯
𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝗔𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 in the group's plans, that could now be announced as failures, in the hospital, Stiles had dismissed her quickly.
As someone who regarded herself as having an explosive temper, she surprisingly didn't have the urge to skin Stiles alive as for two reasons. One, she kinda of got it, they didn't trust her yet. Understandable. And two, the boy's father had been taken by an insane, murderous nut job who Annie was set up on hunting down and killing.
However, her dismissal had pissed her off slightly and she shut her apartment door with much more power than usual. It clattered against the locks in consolidation with Annie's mood.
The three-roomed space the redhead called home was empty as always. Maybe it was her height or maybe it was her maturity that had allowed her to rent this place from a sketchy landlord.
He'd been half Annie's size with a shining bald head and clothes at least two times too small for him. So, Annie could've have guessed he would be the type to allow a 16 year old to move into his building alone.
The apartment itself was severely disappointing on the premise of low expectations anyway. After using your entire body weight to open the door, it led straight into a tiny kitchen-living room complex that was so basic, it resembled a child's deception of said rooms.
The bathroom consisted of a scuffed toilet, an unreliable sink, a rotting, wooden cabinet mounted onto the faded tiles and an eternally stained bath tub. No shower.
Annie's bedroom wasn't exactly luxury either. Upon first glance, it could be mistaken for a low income prison cell.
Sighing as she entered the coldness of her home, Annie caught glance of her appearance in the sharp edged mirror she'd found in a convenience store.
She spotted the blood embroidered into her shirt and thought back to the strange looks she'd received on her walk home. Figures.
Refraining from scoffing at her grimy and bloody complexion, she ignored her reflection and she strode further into her kitchen, clicking up a rusted light switch that brought to life a flickering hanging lamp over head.
She reached into her waistband that rounded her hips snugly and yanked out her adopted gun, placing it carefully on the splintering, round, slab of wood on stilts that made the table.
She grinned in satisfaction at the firearm. It was a gorgeous Beretta Model 92. It had an open slide design which Annie knew would be perfect for clearing pesky obstructions like Jenifer Blake had become.
