Gun to Your Head
"Now, now, you don't have to pretend anymore," Nate said as he took a seat on the only armchair in the studio apartment.
He leaned back, ankle crossed on the stained coffee table – after he swept the empty takeout boxes and dirty cups with his leg, they clattered to the garbage-scattered floor. He draped an arm on the back of the chair, drumming an unrecognizable tune with his fingers.
Mr. Phil Lashio was cowering slightly. Looking like a mouse trapped by wild cat with the most vicious grin he ever saw.
Keira had found the key hanging on the door, locking it once the three of them entered. She gripped the key in her hand, securing their next lead to not slip away.
Mr. Lashio squeaked without dignity, visibly wincing and she had to admit, it was comical because his bushy beard moved along with it. She turned to look at the cause.