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WHO: @poiscns WHERE: the aviary gun store & range

The Aviary smelled like oil and sawdust and the faint tang of ozone that never seemed to leave her skin. Irene stepped inside with her hood still up, letting the warmth from the threshold brush past her before tugging the door closed behind her. It wasn’t late, but the light was already fading outside—stormclouds banking thick above the ridge, low and restless like they knew something she didn’t.

She didn’t come here often. Not unless she had to.

Her steps were quiet, measured. She didn’t pause to browse, didn’t linger over the racks. The front of the shop was familiar enough, clean glass, careful displays, everything in its place. It was the kind of tidy that tried a little too hard to look casual. The kind that made her teeth itch. She knew where to go. Back, past the display cases and the locked cabinet of antique pieces nobody ever touched but he always insisted on keeping stocked. Through the low-lit hallway that smelled faintly of bleach and dried blood.

She found him behind the counter, of course. Where else.

“Nicolás.”

His name came low and even, no smile attached, no warmth meant. Just a simple acknowledgment. She didn’t take her hands from her coat pockets, didn’t move closer than necessary.

“Need restock on the salt rounds. And the brass you special ordered—three weeks back? I was told it came in.”

A beat passed. Her gaze didn’t waver, but her shoulders shifted slightly, like she was bracing for something.

“That’s it. I won’t keep you.”

She didn’t ask how he was. Didn’t ask about the last hunt or who he’d pissed off this week. Irene didn’t do small talk with firestarters.

Not unless she had to.