Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The oppressive heat of the day had not broken with the sunset, instead settling like a heavy, damp blanket over the city. Inside the small, cluttered apartment, the air was thick and utterly motionless, resisting the lazy, circular sweep of the fan blades. Spy Tug, a sleek black cat, was a puddle of liquid fur draped over the cool porcelain of the bathtub, his sides rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pant. The distant, intermittent wail of a siren was the only sound that dared pierce the muffled silence of the neighborhood. Beads of condensation traced slow, meandering paths down the side of a forgotten glass of water, leaving dark circles on the wooden table. From the open window, the scent of hot asphalt and overripe garbage from the alley below mingled unpleasantly in the stagnant air. Every surface one touched, from the laminate countertop to the pages of a book, felt vaguely warm and unwelcoming. The city’s lights shimmered and bled in the haze, creating a dull, orange glow that smothered any hope of seeing stars. It was a night that made even the simplest movement feel like a monumental effort, a shared, sleepless misery. In that sweltering stillness, time itself seemed to slow, stretch, and pool in the shadows of the room.
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