(Please do let me know if it was inappropriate to post this. I imagine not, but caution may be the better part of valour.)
An apartment complex seated around the edge of the city's dear Sefton Park, the grey high-rise towers as one of a handful marrin the skyline of the home to homeless, addicts and drunkards alike by night. Up on the eight floor, a man has purchased the entire floor and decorated it spartanly. A solitary door stares back from metal frame and pitted metal slab, a sign reading "Do Not Enter" bolted onto it. No matter which way you turn, peeling white paint bleeds decay into the atmosphere with only spiders for comfort. Beyond the metal lies a thin corridoor barely a man-and-a-half abreast, a slender window cutting through the black paint with the only indication of a door being the brass knob jutting from the grasping darkness. Even in daylight, the cheap painted wood-board door is difficult to pick out amongst the features.
Beyond lies nothing more than a single steel-framed bed with white sheets and a sole pillow. Oddly, there seems to be nothing else beyond a mottled rug, ceiling height wardrobe and a quaint table with an ashtray nearby. The rest of the house is unknown, a window to the park beyond lurks shrouded with silver blinds, more often than not a weapons case under the bed with some particular favourites within. In contrast to outside, this room is magnolia against varnished wooden floosboards.
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Presently, Atma was sat upon the bed smoking steadily amidst the night, a towel wrapped about his midrift with his pistol resting upon the table alongside a bottle of water, catching the moonlight and his gaze as he awaited a call to the phone beneath his pillow.
Subject: Liverpool Hideout