Troy

She was seated with her legs crossed in the bed, her hair piled in that messy bun she always wore. She had Romero’s map in her hands, pointing to one of the faded pictures on the margin. There was a look of sheer excitement in her eyes, something almost rabid and unrecognizable.

“A gem?” I shrugged out of my old leather jacket, tossing it into the corner of the room as I bent to untie the laces of my boots.

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

I ...