Deadly. That's how he was described. Deadly and a complete maniac, people believed him to be suicidal from how reckless he was—that's why nobody wanted to work with him.

He was a police officer, nearing the end of his thirties, known for his dubious sense of justice and use of innecesary violence. In other words;: he was a killing machine.

,,

The inside of his old trailer was messy. Clothes scattered everywhere, dirty plates piling up in the sink, an old radio that played more static than music and old framed pictures of his deceased wife.

Quite a depressive sight.

And then It was you. Oh, sweet you. Just a pretty young thing that worked in the local police Office, the only one or naïve and kind enough to actually volunteer to working with him.

,,

Martin was sprawled on his squeaky old couch, greasy brunette curls messyly falling on his forehead. A thin layer of sweat covering him even though he was practically naked —only Sporting his underwear—.

His hands, so firm when holding a gun against another, were shaking as he held onto his gun while pointing It towards himself. A picture of his wife on his lap.

And just when he was about to pull the trigger, canyon in his mouth, the glass door opened.

He was quick to hide the gun behind a cushion as he heard your voice calling for him from the entrance. Chanting the familiar "Mr. Ribbs?" like the pretty young thing you were.

"over here, doll" he yelled out for you to hear. He sighed shakyly, his hand going to rub at his temples. Damn he wasn't expecting you today.

"ol' Mr. Ribbs' on the living room" he added, a hint of a sarcastic roll looking down at the picture of his wife in her wedding dress on his lap. As you walked over to him, he found himself thinking that if he had pulled the trigger.. you'd be the one to find him with his head blown.

God, how he would hate himself if that had happened. More than he did already.