[center][h1]Enoch[/h1]
[hider=Music][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KWwvI83-fI[/youtube][/hider][/center][hr][color=gray]Harvest Hills Apartments
Charity Beach, Florida
1200 hrs
Saturday, June 11th[/color]

He twirled the keyring on his index finger as he struggled the distance from the elevator to the room door, glancing at the white walls of the hallway. They had scratch marks, cracks in the drywall, and even some outlines of where graffiti had been painted over. Nice place, he thought to himself as he traced the brass numbers nailed to each door whilst limping himself down the hallway. It was a long enough walk, compounded by his gait which he had newly acquired, albeit temporarily.

And finally he found it, the numbers on the white door listing '531' in faded brass number stencils. Shifting the duffel bag on his back, he jammed the key into the door, turning it with a distinct click, before trying the knob. He spilled inside quickly, closing the door behind him, making note of the three different locking mechanisms he had to play with. How foreboding. Gazing upon his new residence, he took in the whole single room and a half he had to work with. A single bed on a simple flat frame, a couch with a coffee table, and a bar-counter with a microwave and minifridge haphazardly balanced atop it, both plugged into a nearby outlet. But what's not to forget about the bathroom. Well, one could say 'room', but it was a toilet located about a foot and a half in front of a sink, leaving a narrow passage to a comparatively tiny standing shower, the shower head seemingly having a constant drip of water.

How quaint. He smirked, internally reasoning that it was better than some bunkhouse shared with thirty other Marines. Shrugging the duffel bag off his shoulder, he let it fall to the mattress on the bed, before giving way to the couch and sinking into the horrifically patterned cushions. Reaching into his waistband, he dislodged his pistol from its inline holster, sitting it on the coffee table and leaning back once again. Did this place have rules against smoking? He couldn't remember, he'd signed the lease in such a hurry, not wanting to spend another night in a roach-infested motel on the outskirts of the city. Now at least he had a roach-infested place to call his own.

Sidetracked once more, he returned to the matter at hand, reaching into the shirt of pocket of his blue patterned button-up and producing a packet of Camel filterless reds. Placing one of the carcinogen tubes between his lips, he struck up with a Bic lighter jammed into the carton along with the cigarettes. Billowing out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, he pondered his next move. He already had a job lined up, and after that Charleston business, he hoped this was it. There was no way they knew he was alive after that, and he had the scars and limp to prove it. His plan wasn't sound in entirety, but it sounded good in his microscopic skull raisin of a brain. Work at the docks, live your life, and kill anyone who might know or report you.

He glanced down at the pistol sitting on the coffee table. He really needed to clean that thing. Did he even have a gun-cleaning kit after last time? Dish soap would work in a hurry to soak it, but he wasn't even sure this place stocked that. Reaching forward, he grasped the firearm in his hand, thumbing the magazine release and glancing down at the ten cartridges tucked within, before inserting it back into the weapon and pulling the slide back halfway, confirming the round in the chamber. He double-checked the thumb safety before holstering the pistol, bringing himself back to a standing position with a pained grunt. They really didn't have to fuck up his leg like that, did they?

He popped his neck, before glancing down at his second-hand cheap digital watch. 1:15. He didn't start work until bright and early tomorrow, but as for scoping the place out, there was no time like the present. Spinning his keyring on his index finger, he limped over to his duffel bag, throwing open the zipper. Reaching in, he found his intended target at the very top, producing a grey curved bill baseball cap with netted back. He fit it over his unkempt mop of hair, adjusting the velcro strap on the back, before nodding silently, making for the door, on course for the beach and boardwalk district.