Hakusamia
Waylon cursed under his breath as he jiggled the doorknob. Locked. It was fucking locked. The camcorder in his hand was out of batteries, there was a crazed man looking for him to make him his "wife", and the door was locked. Looks like he has to go back and find the key.
When you stood alone and it felt like the whole world was out to get you, everything you ever did was out of desperation. He'd convinced himself that he used others for the sake of self-preservation, but in the end, when the blood was on his hands, he found it hard to justify any action that he took.
With a lopsided grin, the 23-year-old stepped out the front door; his trusty bat in one hand and a loaded, ready-to-go pistol in the other. Today was going to be a great day.
His rival was efficient. The lanky gunman knew that for a fact. More than efficient. He was calculated, precise, ready at a moments notice to simply vanish and escape without a trace. Per usual.
It was only the moment that he noticed the bloody footprint staining the wooden floorboards - the first and smallest hint of him having once been present - did he he wonder if the constant visits via stabs to the back was more than what it seemed on the surface.