Tord is a fool

ܪ ...

Tord sat in the old, smoke-smelling garage, sorting through the machine gun parts. Oil stained his fingers, but he worked quickly, methodically. Outside, there were screams and sirens. The city was erupting in protests again, but he didn't care. All that mattered was being prepared.

Click. The last piece clicked into place. Tord picked up the weapon, checked the magazine, then looked in the mirror. The red scarf was tied perfectly, as always. He grinned – this was going to be fun.

Loud knock on the door. Time's up.