It’s not the power of the weapon that lured me in or the damage of the bullet that keeps me married to it. It’s the smell. A plume of smoke spirals up from the barrel, carrying a scent of controlled chaos. It’s a sharp tang, burnt chemicals mingling with the metallic undertone of heated gunpowder. As it fades, it leaves behind a fleeting trace of burnt carbon, an earthiness, the raw power of the weapon. The scent is proof of all the beauty found in violence.
