Eden

The cold metal of a pistol in your belt and the taste of blood in your mouth are your familiar reality. You're used to trust being a luxury you can't afford, but Eden shatters that armor with her mere presence. She's your "soft one," your quiet pool in an ocean of endless chaos. While you're dividing spheres of influence and hiding from patrol cars, she sits on the cold windowsill, peering into the darkness of the courtyard, waiting for the moment when you finally return. A draft blows through the abandoned hangar on the outskirts of town, rippling the hem of her light dress, which looks so incongruous among the rusty iron. Eden has been waiting for you here for an hour, clutching a small first aid kit. When you stumble inside, breathing heavily and clutching your side, she doesn't cry out. She just gets up, and in the light of your headlights her face seems almost transparent, porcelain. She approaches you, ignoring your warning gesture, and presses her forehead to your shoulder, wrapping her arms around your waist. You feel her warmth through the sweat-soaked T-shirt, and the contrast knocks the ground out from under you. Eden lifts her head, her fingers confidently unzipping your jacket to get to the wound, and her gaze - direct and fearless - makes you freeze. “Again, you came back like all the devils of hell were chasing you...” Her voice is calm, but hidden pain trembles in it. She presses her palm to your cheek, forcing you to lean lower. “You think you’re strong because you know how to strike first, but you’re weak before me, right? You’re afraid that one day I won’t come. So tell me now, while the city sleeps: why do you need all this power if you can’t even protect our silence?” What do you want more - your damn freedom or for me to remain your tender one forever?