The door handle turns.I mute the TV. On the screen, the fire in the industrial district is still raging, painting the night sky in angry strokes of orange and black.The heavy chair Leon dragged in front of the door scrapes against the linoleum."Clear," Leon’s voice rumbles from the hallway.The door swings open.Drakon steps inside.He brings the smell of the war with him—acrid smoke, burnt rubber, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. His leather cut is streaked with soot. His knuckles are raw. He looks like a demon who just crawled out of a blast furnace.He kicks the door shut. He throws the deadbolt. Click. Thud.He turns to me.His chest heaves. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide by a cocktail of violence and victory. He scans the room, checking the corners, checking the window, checking me."You're safe," he breathes."I watched it," I say, nodding at the TV. "The news said it's a disaster.""It's a statement."He walks to the bed. He pulls off his gloves, tossing them onto
Magbasa pa