A Trail of Smoke and Smugglers (Santi/PopexReader)

Purgatory

[A/N: Hello my lovely readers! Here is the first chapter of A Trail of Smoke and Smugglers! I'm so excited to guide you all on this new journey that I hope you will eagerly follow along. If you haven't watched the movie, no worries! As long as you familiarize yourselves with the characters and their respective actors, you should be fine to proceed (but I do recommend the movie)! Without any further ado, please enjoy! -K 🖤]

[🌿This chapter contains swearing and brief, slight angst.🌿]
***
My eyes had faithfully watched the ticking hands of the clock for an hour. Every movement of the separate hands didn't go unnoticed by me, and I strategically planned my breathing in intervals that fell into line with the passing time.

Although it was a simple clock, the repeating clicks bothered me more than I realized. The sound was consistent in the middle of the threatening silence. I didn't remember the last time my environment was quiet enough that I could hear my own exhales.

Silence wasn't a privilege that I had been allowed to enjoy, and even attempting to sit unmoving was only forcing me to stress further.

I drummed my fingers on the countertop rhythmically and in a pattern familiar enough to ground me. The cheap granite echoed slightly under my fingers throughout the basically empty and un-lived in apartment.

No decor or charismatic pictures lined the miniature rooms or brightened up the muted base grays of the walls and interior of the apartment. My eyes flickered to the kitchen located on the other side of the counter that I was sitting at.

Just like the rest of the apartment, there were no homely jars or additions to make the space personal or objective. It was effectively a blank space, an easily abandonable location should I ever need to leave town quickly.

I had attempted to settle down once, and that plan severely betrayed me, causing me to suffer even now.

Listening to the pattern of my fingers and the constant clicking of the clock hanging on the wall continued to crumble my patience and sanity. With a hurried movement, I abruptly left the stool and traversed to the living room.

There were no couches, no chairs, no television, and absolutely no personal properties. I didn't have a desire for them, nor a need for a sense of comfort. There was also that fact that I didn't own anything remotely personal or special with memories.

It had been drilled into me that I didn't deserve it.

Displayed on the center of the commercially symmetrical strips of hardwood floor were neatly organized piles of the only comfort that I had been conditioned to crave.

Weapons.

Knowing that I was armed in an uncertain and dangerous world, even though I spent most of my recent free time holed in the apartment, gave a slight confidence that a personal peace was perhaps achievable and obtainable.

I leaned down and carefully gripped one of my favorite sidearms. The Desert Eagle pistol fit singly into my grasp as I wrapped my fingers around the handle. I admired the cosmetically altered gun, which had been specifically painted a matte black, finely trimmed with a thin red line.

The grip of the gun had been wrapped with a rough leather, dramatically tightened and fastened for an easy aim and quick reflex, also diminishing the lengthy reload interval.

On the intricate "TiN coated" barrel, a name had been crudely carved into the pristine matte black paint, indicating the owner and the one whose finger was on the trigger.

Hades.

A sudden knock at the door immediately turned my head towards the intrusive sound. I brought the pistol behind my back and stealthily approached the door with a sneaking technique that I had enacted countless times before.