Luna sat cross-legged on the soft, fluffy carpet, her back resting comfortably against the edge of C's bed.
The warm, dim light from the desk lamp cast gentle shadows across the simple yet neatly organized room, highlighting every corner of C's space.
Her blue eyes scanned every detail, as if trying to piece together who C really was just by looking at his belongings.
A bookshelf stuffed with textbooks and a few thick novels. A lone indie band poster on the otherwise plain wall. A stack of sketches neatly tucked into the corner of his desk.
Her gaze landed on the workbench. There, among small electronic parts and scattered tools, sat a homemade pistol.
The weapon looked intimidating, sharp lines, solid build, it radiated an aura of precision and cold efficiency. Luna stared at it for a long moment, her brows furrowing slightly. This wasn't a toy. This was a real gun, meant to hurt someone.
