Junko Takayama's Story

The Brooklyn sub rosas, cage and coop of something bound for victory and moved on the backs of rats who dreamt for better lives. Puppets in buildings by the string yanking of a cosa nostra sensation. Labs go east, west. North. South. Between. Pocketed in those non-English-speaking districts where the cards are cut just by bare management. 'Cause it can go one of two ways: riches or ruin. These stockrooms range from coffee houses, basements, titty bars, to crack dens. Each front has its purpose. The mass production of analgesics, opiates and stimulants is the foremost. Branded Zaire.

A familiar theme 'round these parts is the devil's song and frequent libido to dance to it. The opposite of the bible is the parables written in this place, where indulgence is courtesy of opted intent for dirty glory. If one can't find it in an empty wallet and scattered teeth of a sidewalk, they will find it in the rippling of their blood after selling their soul. Euphoria is never too far for the willing hedonist. But prestige? Big guns never lose it when they're unafraid, against the odds without hesitation toward the next spirit they break. It's why this neighborhood is gutted down the middle.

Two kings. Two houses.

Bel sat under the crown of cold hard cash. He'd accept nothing less in the absence of his father. His former brother in arms, Gunner, resided on the diametric side, with significantly less losses. It was because of this that Bel found himself at war even more so internally than out - the agony behind painful self questioning never garnered him reason. Never explanation.

Why was it that, as Cristobel and Senna's father became a ghost, Gunner got to speak to his one last time? Why in all of this, did Gunner's spine stiffen to a formidable code he wouldn't break, not even for his best friend? Why wouldn't he tell anyone anything? Why didn't he want the family he grew alongside to have closure? Why in Andres Zaire's memory, was there only the aftermath of Gotti Bates and his perpetual stain on Bel's family? Why did any of the Bates stay in New York? What gave them the nerve? How was that family name still remotely alive in the streets? Was Bel just fucking their only daughter in the name of some sworn counter play? Was he next to be taken out? These things were contemplated quietly. Inside the glock-tapped-temple of none other than Cristobel.

His morning routine involved casting aside his blatant love for Julia Bates and all the vindictive poison for the rest of her bloodline. Somewhere beside the discarded sentiment was likely an empty bottle, Rolex, and an iPhone loaded with missed calls. A few inches beyond the dangling wrist of a mattress ornament. His nocturnal penchant. Sun stream trickled through the window and ignited the curves of her silhouette, glittered on dark hair but failed to lighten under eye shadows. Cocaine coma. She was nameless and catered to, he was a stack of Benjamins richer. Bel inhaled the aroma of some catty perfume stuck to his sheets, half lidded, hand down the front of his boxers. A lone thumb lazily grazed Calvin Klein's in a hazy blur of ink. Just another successful night in paradise.

The rough skin of a tattooed palm came down his face at the realization that morning was actually noon and noon was surely ticking past 2PM. With a knuckle slide along the ribs of his clientele and concubine, he murmured, "Muñeca I got shit to do." No movement. He assessed his stubble from mandible to chin point, waiting for a response.

“Vamos,” he snagged the comforter from where it rested just enough to protect her dignity below, tugged on one of her ankles and gruffly spoke up, “Salir. Now.” The baritone spilled out of his mouth in autocratic excellence without room for second thoughts or apologies. Not like he ever gave either, anyway. The Latina hissed in recoil, “Yo sé cómo funciona!” She went vertical, suddenly turning the rounded tip of her nose up and gathering material around her naked frame. He was pleasantly surprised by her comprehension, being that it was almost impossible to recall whether she spoke English or at all the night before. “Cálmese. I don’t wanna’ fucking cuff you. No te hagas ilusiones.” It appeared she was mocking him, but he attributed it to her beauty sleep being disturbed.

“Nobody owns Cristobel Zah-ree.”

It appeared his generous assumption was wrong. Nope, this was home-brewed loathing. But all he could do was furrow his brow at the rolling of her tongue around the syllables of his name and let a grin split across his face. There was real anger behind the full red mouth that was barking at him, stainless cotton falling from her grasp in her audacity. As her dialect proceeded into a flood, he scrolled through his phone, acknowledging the common case among all of the texts. More or less a block party at The Little Lady which would be warped into a business opportunity the minute he stepped foot on the property. Live music, good food, maybe they’d even open up the outdoor dining portion if the sun stayed at it. A cocked eyebrow hit when the firecracker threw a hand toward him, breasts jiggling at every point she made, babbling about him not even listening.

Had to love the sass and fearlessness of a Latina, the disrobed pride and promise that he would miss her when she was gone. That she swore. His response was unmoved by her passionate script, but hell if it wasn’t entertaining. “Si, si.” He’d say. Hypnotizing, really. Watching the bounce of her chest and allowing her voice to fade into static. Just smile and nod. Offer her a ride home and try not to laugh.

By the time she’d finally relented and caved for a cruise in the A6, he was short on time. He didn’t get her name. Back to the pad and swiftly into the shower. The usual nine yards. Shit, shower, shave. What greeted him in the mirror was prominent cheek bones once made way for by the clearing of condensation. A pair of dark riddles above his nose, the steel jawline complimenting surfeit of symmetry. Dead set terrain down his abdomen showed in washboard fashion. Somehow it was maintained by the occasional shake and two hour gym session. Casual slap of Armani aftershave, finger rake through chocolate hair at the hard part, pomade to keep it in place. Save for the clothes in the bedroom, he was just about done.

Pregaming lone wolf style would have him fashionably late for the bash but no one would mind. Julia, maybe, but it wasn’t like she could come sit in his lap either way in a place like that. Not with the odds of her brothers showing up. Senna would reserve a table or a seat at the bar, clock him with her tiny hand and chide him without any real effort whenever he decided to make an appearance. Everything else would be handshakes and exchange.

Bel neglected pulling a shirt on until the last possible moment, lethargic in sliding a denim jacket over it as well. The permanent medallion across collar bones barely peeked over the white seam. And when he rocked himself to his full posture of six feet and then some, floorboards creaked under his shoes.

The atmosphere was friendly, happy enough. Light. Yeah, that’s what he would use to describe it. Lots of family-oriented cordiality and the smell of home cooked recipes. The doors were propped open as if to say, “Everyone is welcome.” Immediately behind the counter with a twist on his mouth was what Bel assumed to be the owner or head chef, muscles wrapped around his arms and twitching when something was out of place. At his side, a young girl, maybe six or seven at the most. She pulled on him and suspended from his side in the way children do when they really want something.

It didn't take Bel long to spot Dominic Bates, cigar between teeth and sidewise to the commotion. The rest of the clan would surely be arriving if the least-involved tramp was there. So when Leigh slid up next to Bel, voice meek, maintaining just enough distance to be his shadow, the reminder of advantage was cognizant. One of his arms went around her shoulder to whisper something into her hair. Similar to how a federal agent holds up a piece of clothing to his dog and starts the hunt, but more refined and indirect. Her tresses were ambrosial of Tsubaki and it lingered on him when she split off.

There were the regulars, then. Neighborhood-y faces recognized easily. Malkov with his Russian charm, something in his glass, patting backs and politely regarding matrons. In fact, he was just a short distance from Bel’s little sister, who was eyeing the cracked-concrete look of an arm laid on the bar top. The back face of its palm had a song bird tattoo. Had to belong to a junkie from the vein structure. Someone paler than a ghost. Tall and thin, akin to a specter, too. Must have been one of the kids that showed up to Bel’s HQ with a jittering violent need that couldn’t be sated by just any product. He was shameless, bumping Senna and causing a spilled drink when he readjusted himself. Judging by the carriage and slick smile, it had to be Jasper. Senna was regaining her composure, waving it off and saying it wasn’t a big deal as she dabbed at her dress with a napkin. Typical. But at least it was handled.

Bel held a menu in his hand. The place was stacked with decent options, none of which he’d get to sit down and enjoy with sniper-eyes in every corner but. He’d take a mental note of it and return on a less crowded day. The sandy-haired hurricane herself blew in a moment later, eyes buffed black by make up. Julia totally avoided her brother, curved anyone else and went straight for the bar. Eventually the brawn known as Gunner showed up, then a Kim [or two], and Simone in the ironed perfection of a tailored get up.

Suddenly it felt congested.

Upon ordering himself a bourbon, Bel found himself next to a familiar patron, scarlet shade pinning crux on her. But he knew all about Chloe. Her habits, her cool exhibition of being the secret aficionado. He ordered her a vodka and cranberry, mouthing, “It’s on me.” She was pressed to the bar by the back of the Yakuza’s daughter [really strange seeing her out in the daylight, let alone somewhere like The Little Lady].

Moving between the crowd was a blue-haired girl, anxious in mannerism, serving plates of food. She dumped an appetizer tray in front of Chloe and Bel, looking flustered. The air constricted, thickened with the humidity of bodies packed and much too comfortable whether in a drunken state of food or booze to move. Bel closed a hefty tip in her free hand and waved her off. He tried to keep his gaze off of Jubes, raising his glass to toast with Chloe, “So aside from the obvious, what do you do in your free time? You don’t strike me as the regular New Yorker, and I’m all sorts of curious.”

Read Jubes' Post Here

Every coin has another side, cleaner or dirtier is a matter of perspective, and the West dealt with midnight, back-alley dealings and baseball bats breaking bones of those too stupid to pay up. Relying on a gusto of gnarled thugs, frost-wielding transport trucks, and bearded brothers to keep their business running like freshly greased cogs, the Bates starlight business of narcotics, premium nose candy and dirty work clambered to the top, with their neighbourhood Colombians. They kept their fingers in everyone's pie. Rubbed shoulders, shook hands, buried bodies. Knowledge and connections might've been powerful, but it's the ones that back it up with ripped knuckles and gnashed teeth that get to keep it all. And if there's something to say about the Bates family, it's that they're damned fucking determined to keep what they've earned.

While Dominic sat in the second throne, narcotic-crown as soft and delicate as flowers on his head, Gunner was at his side. Behind his chair, at his feet, arms crossed and always waiting: a bearded beefcake, a dog with a short leash, and a penchant for abusing their own merchandise. Frequently. If anyone actually noticed, they didn't say anything. Too much of a bother. And for once, in that damning instance, Gunner knew more than his older brother, and his attempts at drowning out his father's wrangling words ended up in barely-recalled nights heating spoons and taping clean needles, passed out in the hallway of his home; clothed or unclothed.

Why had his dad reached out to him first? He wasn't in charge. He'd never been in fucking charge, so why had he pulled him aside, bright eyes like delirious lanterns. Gripping his shoulder like a drunken man holding onto a pillar. Why couldn't he have just left him out of it? Instead, he dropped a handful of shit into his hands, and took off to god-knows where. No instructions as to what he was supposed to do with what he told him. What was he supposed to do? One person couldn't stand up to the shit-storm that was brewing in the distance, and the sickness swirling in his gut told him that he didn't want the change that was coming. Something would burn to the ground. And they'd expect him to tickle his fingers across his glock: friend or not.

His own morning routine wasn't as glamorous. Gunner didn't rake his teeth across a stranger's thighs, didn't transpose his room into a tourist attraction and click his tongue at a nice pair of legs until they felt compelled to trail their way inside. He'd never been like that, much to Bel's disappointment. How many times had he dragged his sorry ass to strip clubs, or dumped a friend of a friend into his lap, hoping for something entertaining to happen? Too many times to count. Mornings like these were spent wallowing in the tangled sheets, leather belt just barely slinking down his forearm. His phone buzzed off the coffee table, and clattered on the ground until the caller finally gave up and left a nasally message. Hardly any sunlight trickled through the bamboo blinds, carefully shuttered close to prevent his head from spinning when he finally cracked his eyes open. Feather-light foot treads pounced on the corner of his bed, clambered up his spine, and settled beside his face. A lady of the feline persuasion. A rattling purr sounded, nestling itself under his jawline. Better than any alarm clock he'd ever had.

A soft sigh sifted past his lips, buried in fur, until he rolled to the side, and pushed himself up, disentangling himself from the thin sheets. He didn't bother with heavy blankets, no duvet, because it was too hot and nightmares addled his narcotized dreams. Dragging heavy hands across his face and through his hair, Gunner dragged his knuckles over his bleary eyes. Lidded at half-mast, they combed across the room and found the glowing numbers blinking up at him: 1pm. Wasn't like he had much to do today, but sleeping in when he should've been slinging dope, or following Dominic's instructions, wouldn't bode well for him. He dropped a hand across the feline's head, scratched at the back of it's ears, and murmured a barely intelligible word before slipping off the bed and stumbling towards the bathroom.

An initial bout of inertia made Gunner's shower dismally miserable. His head swam like a fishbowl, splashing over it's sides. Soap, scrape, forehead pressed against the tiles, finished. He swiped his palm across the surface pf the wall-sized mirror, clearing the condensation to expose a slice of raccoon-eyed bags, like purple and black prose, and drifting lower, a flat-lined frown. Thick, dark eyebrows, framed murky eyes, or puddles, or shit, for all the baggage they carried. Aquiline nose, crooked. Lip, scarred. Fortunately, they weren't bloodshot. Clipped his beard so he looked less like a lumberjack and more like someone who had their life together, which was hilariously inaccurate. Taming the scruff of brown hair with pomade, and briefly spraying his collar with whatever was on the counter. Probably Dominic's stuff.

He flicked through his phone, halted on a few texts, though they generally said the same thing. When was he getting there? The Little Lady—a party of sorts, and there'd be business, because wherever the families went, there was always fucking business to take care of. Almost made him want to stay in. Tuck himself back in bed. Send himself off in another ceiling-raising stupor, drifting away from everything that made his knuckles crack. Gunner took a deep, withering breath and snapped open his closet.

Clothes. Clothes made the man... or whatever his pops used to say, tightening tiny ties around the boys' necks whenever they were allowed to follow him around. It stuck with him, like a rough-housing growl in the back of his ear, even if he deliberately ignored it. His style allowed for brisk movements, bloody fists, and future stains, because blood was unforgiving on designer suits and shiny shoes. A plain white shirt, fitted to his stocky form. Black dress pants, fitted with a belt for ulterior purposes, and a pair of ass-kicking boots, prime for extracting teeth from pretty faces. Slipping a leather jacket over his bulky shoulders, he shook out the collar and sucked at his gums, hesitating at the doorway. Aviators completed the ensemble, to hide the mess of restlessness splayed across his face like a crime scene presenting itself to his betters.

But, it wasn't the glasses he'd been wondering about. It didn't make him rock back on his heels, fingers resting across the door handle. A bump. That's all he needed right now, before throwing himself neck-deep into whatever was going to happen at The Little Lady. He wasn't stupid. He'd been avoiding Bel like he carried the bubonic plague, like he had rats scurrying at his heels, threatening to infect everyone around him. Might've been cowardly, but Gunner didn't have a way with words, and something told him that whatever he managed to say would end up in broken bottles and flying fists. It wasn't what he wanted. He raked his fingers across his face, exhaled sharply and lurched back into his room. Only took him a few seconds, fishing out that tiny bag of paradise, of silent sanctum. Meticulous movements, dividing pure whiteness into lines, and sending it straight up his septum. A few head shakes, sniffles, and he was right as rain.

Showing his face late wasn't anything out of the ordinary, though he was neither fashionably late or cared enough to come early. Sometimes, he didn't bother showing up at all. Shaking hands and clapping shoulders didn't appeal to him. Now, busting heads and making people cry, that was a different beast altogether. Nettled energy sizzled through his fingertips, jettisoned up his spine, and wriggled down his neckline; sordid warmth, cat-calling him to break things, run, expend it in any way possible. But this was the wrong place. Everything in the Little Lady screamed civil, organized, friendly. Jona's bearded gruff greeted him first, eying the establishment through the eyes of someone who cared too much. Gunner took another deep breath through his nostrils and felt the bitter, residual lick dripping down his throat, numbing the portions it touched. And he was calm, for the most part. He licked his lips, hooked his aviators in his shirt and bustled through the gathering crowd of locals.

Bel was hard to miss in the crowd, even if he'd rather go without seeing him here, he knew it'd be impossible. Of course, he'd be here. Wouldn't miss it for the world. Besides, they had business to settle, and he wasn't saying a word about it. How awkward would this be? Gunner slipped a hand to the nape of his neck and scratched at his hairline, idling closer to the bar, than anyone's table. Usually, he wouldn't cut through the crowd and plopped right down beside his upscaled, swanky partner in crime, but times were changing and he didn't feel like facing him just yet. Not without a drink warming his belly. He noted the shaking phantom bump into Senna, and spill her drink, and almost stepped over to see if there was a problem, until he overhead him apologizing. Jasper, that's what his name was. Just another junky. Kinda like he was, he supposed. His gazed lingered on the youngest Zaire, dabbing her dress and waving Jasper off like it was no big deal, because it wasn't, but that's just how she was. They were contradictions, reacting in distinctive ways. She was too good, sometimes.



Gunner averted his gaze, because it was never good looking at her for too long when Bel was around. Instead, he wandered to the bar and leaned his elbows across the smooth, clean surface, glancing up at the grisly bartender, “Two shots of rum, each. Thanks.” He didn't look at Jubes for a second. Only shifted his position and leaned his back against the bar, regarding everyone else flitting from group to group. Simon was smoothing ruffled feathers. It was a knack he had, churning turmoil into something a little lighter. Then, there was everyone else. Businesses rubbing elbows in the dark, smoke puffing from lips; Russian, American, Colombian, Yakuza alike. It would've been strange if he wasn't used to such shady company, and if he didn't belong in it himself. Once the drinks arrived, he slid one over to his younger sister and took a whopping gulp of his own, sighing over the rim of his glass, “Hope you're having a better day than I am, Jubes.”

Two heels to the soft, carpeted floor and she was up. She was the only one up at such an hour, as usual. Six in the morning and the petite honeypot was ready to take on the day. More or less. There was a dim strip of sunlight leaking through the thick, red curtains of her ever so prestigious bedroom, as if the sun were afraid to wake her. What poor mister sun didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. The space was clean, almost untouched, because it basically was. Hani had spent the first hour past midnight pretending to be deep in slumber, and the better half of the night patrolling through the new York streets, even catching a quick coffee with Jun. Today, more than usual, she needed an escape. A lot was going on. Too much, too quickly. Business here, business there, that’s all the Kim family ever touched on. Simple Good mornings, Good nights or even How was your day had practically vanished years ago, along with the five strangers’ sense of family. Hani never complained. Not out loud. Not anymore. She would, had she thought it would make an inkling of a difference, but why complicate things? As if they weren’t already.

”Good morning Ella, you’re looking extra cute today” dark haired girl beemed. If a gray tabby’s attention were all she ever needed in life, she could consider herself the happiest human in existence. The soft purrs hung at her heels, carefully tracing every step. Who would be lonely with company such as this? As if through clairvoyance, Ella strutted a few feet ahead, making every twist and turn before Hani did, leading them both to an empty, unwelcoming kitchen. Yet another tradition Hani had grown used to. The refrigerator. This was always her first stop. Other pit stops in her mornings included a freshly brewed cup of Italian espresso, a generous helping of waffles and/or pancakes and attempting to leave the “protection” of the estate without being apprehended. Generally, most of those checked out. This morning would have been the perfect one to do so. However, it’s routine was a bit askewed. Jahyun was clearly still asleep, after the night he had, it came as no surprise to his sister. To ignorant eyes, one would think that only the two of them formed part of the this extended, too large family in this too large house. Regardless, Hani was grateful. Grateful for him and grateful for her sanity.

One. Two. Three? Is three too many? How many pancakes was one allowed to have at a time again. Was there a rule for this? She was neither a cook nor a food expert. Three seemed like a nice, rounded number. Three circular clouds of dough with a side of too much syrup and just enough of the hot, semi-bitter liquid to wake him up. The soft purrs continued to follow her. Across the kitchen, up the twirling stairway, down the hall to the last door on the left. Was there a need to knock. If so then it was too late. Once inside, she resorted to tip-toeing. The objective of this mission was to wake him up, but seeing his peaceful face hidden in between piles of blankets and white pillows completely crumbled her resolve. What to do now? Breakfast was already served. A quarter past seven in the morning but the alarm resting just a few feet away was set for half past. Was it cruel to wake him up fifteen whole minutes earlier.

This could have been planned out better, honey

The sense of urgency slowly returned to her and two small palms pressed against the soft mattress beside the sleeping figure. ”Jaejae, I’m up, the sun is up and the pancakes are fresh!” Too chipper? It appeared so, but there was no taking it back now. A few noises escaped the no-longer sleeping Jaehyun, tugging a smile from Hani’s naturally rosy lips. ”morning”. A quick peck on his cheek and she was gone. He could handle the rest of the morning on his own, or so she hoped. In any case, nothing a quick shout for her wouldn’t fix. Ella left her owner to join the comfort of her uncle’s bed sheets. Sooner or later he would kick her out. The morning crawled by in conjunction with Hani’s lack of motivation to do anything other than clean around the house to keep busy. At an old snail’s pace the hours passed. One, two...how many times had she cleaned the same spot again. It had reached the point of robotic motions while her mind was who knows where.

Replacing the duster with her mobile device, the notification light shone in her still make-up-less face, bringing with it a glimpse of hope. A party. A party? Was this the sign she had been waiting for? Who, what, why? All questions she should have asked herself before leaving, but were overshadowed by excitement and the eagerness of going out on the town. It was daylight out, which meant there was no need to be sneaky. The entirety of her closet was raided, and somehow she ended up wearing the very first items of clothing she had found.

Hair. Check
Make up. Check
Cell phone. Keys. Money. Check

It was crowded, as to be expected. Everyone showed up all at once as if summoned by a higher being. Two quick glances around the space and he was spotted. Kind of hard to miss. In the midst of her internal battle between right and wrong, shoulds and shouldn'ts, he shifted, moved across the car with ease to keep Chloe Williams company. Good for her. She looked like she could really use some. Not that Hani didn’t, but that was a whole other ball game. A quick of raspberry vodka and she was set. It was only a matter of time. The family didn’t like this settings, nor did they want her being a part of it, not that this ever halted her search for adventure, but eventually they found out, threw out a couple of profanities and sent her back to the estate. At least for right now, she could enjoy the chaos of the atmosphere around, and boy was it chaotic. There was something rotten in the air, a sense of tension, distress, anger, perhaps all of those combined. One thing was for certain, something was about to unfold. And unfold it did. The yelling, the snarls, hissing, shattering of glass and everything in between was enough to send any rich girl running for the hills, but some things were more important than saving your own life. Seconds away from fists being flung and no one seemed to be able to handle the situation. Tables smashed, insults thrown like daggers and guns poised, ready to fire. The petite twenty-two year old acted on pure instinct. WHat would she do? What could she do? That didn’t matter now. Whatever it took to stop this, to prevent anyone from getting hurt. She hardly managed to make it through the hostile crowd, bumping a few shoulders here and there, not bothering to mutter her usual apologies.

”Bel!” her voice was soft, but with just enough bite. Why she was even trying was beyond her. Not a single soul had been able to settle the brawl, how did she expect to. That’s an issue she didn’t think of once until it was but too late. She had to get out. He had to get out. Or they would both end up with the permanent mark of bullet holes. In a momentary lapse of common sense, Hani’s arm wrapped around the enraged man’s tats, quickly pulling him out. Away. As far away as physically possible. Hani knew he hadn’t resisted. Had it been the case they would still be planted in the same spot, as if nailed to the ground. Why hadn’t he resisted? Not that this mattered now. ”It’s not worth, it’s not-” out of breath and resolve, but she got her point across.

A single cobalt ray made way through the thin crack between heavy curtains, a flickering beacon of light in the night of the room. It followed a path over haphazardly removed boots, and a stretched out scarf, up to the sleeve of a woolen coat lying messily on the sheets, and it curved over the shape of a motionless body underneath the covers. The young yakuza woman lay still on her back, black eyes half-lidded and staring up at the peeling ceiling. Dark purple streaked her eyes having forgotten to wipe the coverage up hours before. She needed not to crane her head to the lucky cat clock hanging by her door. She always woke up at the same time. It was just a matter of when she got out.

She wishes she could stay. Junko would never say that aloud, nor acknowledge it personally, but the morning was quiet. It was predictable. Because there was nothing to predict. Nothing except that in about five minutes she would hear footsteps pace outside her door, which usually belong to her little Akecchi, headed to freshen up for school. The low rumbles of the water pipes would course through the wooden floors of their aging rowhouse. And she would probably spend too much time on her face to realize that she would be running late. This short 30 minute period on weekday mornings was probably the closest to the “ordinary” life Junko had always fantasized of. A sudden pang of the previous day’s events knocked on Junko’s thoughts and then threw her back into the real world.

Momentary vertigo accompanied Junko’s movements as she sat up in her bed, her eyes still glazed over with a film of contemplation and exhaustion. She sat hunched over, somewhat uncomfortable having remained in her clothes from last night as opposed to her nightwear. She clamped a cold hand to her forehead and pushed her hair back, remembering the brief moment of escape with Hani in that sultry café. She stood and walked over the scattered objects on her dusty floor to her own bathroom. Slovenly, she tossed her garments across the tiles and beared the shower’s ice cold water on her tepid body. A quick dry-off with a towel and a makeup remover rag later, she stood naked in front of her mirror, feeling the closest to pure a hitwoman could feel. In a stride she put on a dark blue crewneck and black tight jeans. Topping her armor was a fresh new mask-- nothing out of the ordinary that day. Just the run-of-the-mill black wing and nude lipstick, and generally liked what she saw. Before leaving her room, she picked up her purse and her .380 lying in her wardrobe.

As expected, the twenty-three-year-old finished her morning routine before her younger sister. High schoolers care too much, she supposed. Walking toward the stairs, she passed by her younger brother’s room-- his door left ajar and the young bozo in question snoring naked on his floor. Of course. She quickened her stride and sure enough, downstairs her brother’s latest victim was at the door, putting on her shoes for her escape. The girl was just a kid, probably even younger than Akecchi. She turned wide-eyed at the sheer coolness of the big sister, her movements hastening to get the hell out. Poor thing, probably had some traumatizing fight with her daddy or something. That’s how Seiji picked up most of his girls. Junko would’ve taught him otherwise, ‘cept it’s kinda just how the way things are with the men in her family. All of them.

Junko stood silently, her presence as foreboding as her look. As if she had a band of men at her side. She looked down in contempt, watching the girl struggle with her excuses. “I’m Seiji’s friend,” he let me stay,” I’ve nowhere else to go.” Her face remained unchanging, her eyes black daggers. The girl’s excuses turned into insults, most likely just a plan B defense. Not that Junko cared. Scaring the kid off might save her from falling into their lifestyle. She didn’t seem cut out for it, and this was the woman’s way of showing mercy.

Incoherent babbles were all that left the now sobbing kid when Junko decided to finally pull the plug. ”Get the fuck out of my house.” Poor thing. She yelped before making her escape, her shirt still unbuttoned and hanging loosely from her purple and blue chest. Junko oughta strangle her brother for playing rough with children, but she’s got work to do. A job, really. She greeted her mother’s shrine, small and simple on the countertop, then left for the casino.

The Aneesan leaned tiredly over the bar, watching her lackeys go about in the dayless room. Business was slow on weekdays, and her father was out doing the big jobs. No one rang her up for a job yet, and her little brothers took care of the other stuff. The chores. Collecting money, controlling family businesses, beating up wise guys who thought it smart to pick fights with them. Being second-in-command was pretty boring. Junko appreciated the quiet, but damn, a nice intelligent chat with someone would make the hours pass that much quicker. She thought about Hani, the only good thing that’s happened to her outside of her own gang. The boys seemed well-behaved enough. And it wasn’t like they were gonna do anything stupid, either. Those who hang around the headquarters know better. Even the kids. She pulled out her phone to make a call, but stopped upon seeing the alerts.

The sullen lieutenant wasn't anti-social or anything. It was more like she didn’t have a natural penchant for parties. Okay, no, wrong-- she’s the goddamn outcast of outcasts. Her job requires her to show up only to smooth shit over if any of her little brothers got out of line. And even with the bigger missions, they’re usually ran solo. Not to mention the extent of her connections were mostly acquaintanceships or brief clientele. So much surprise was met with her appearance at The Little Lady. The place wasn’t nearly like her usual drinking spots, but if anything, it was refreshing. Then of course came the recognition of certain faces.

Shackles raised higher than they naturally had. Smoothly, she walked over to the bar, but changed her mind about the drink, feeling the need to distance herself from big boy Zaire, more for the sake of having nothing to say to him than an actual precaution, though that's important to not as well. A young scamp made his way, making Junko press onto the lady behind her. Slightly chuffed, she was granted the satisfaction of seeing the boy blunder-- on the baby Zaire nonetheless. She made her way to a table in the corner, facing away from the crowd. Alone, she wonders what was she even thinking? This wasn’t where she belonged. Her portrait is that in front of a band of extortionists and fallen bodies. Business. This place wasn’t her business. There were, god forbid, children in the area. Even amidst the most prolific individuals of the underworld, she didn’t belong there.

Juno’s internal soliloquy was interrupted with the sound of broken glass, and a slew of profanities. She looked vacantly across the empty seat, tensing under the air. Of course a room with both the Bates and the Zaires would ultimately end up this way. Hand clutched over her revolver, she stayed hidden, listening to the exchange. She would only involve herself if necessary-- is what she told herself until she heard a familiar chime of a voice. The Japanese woman turned her head abruptly to the scene, eyes magnetized to her relatively delicate companion clinging onto the arm of the hunk of dynamite. She looked so small next to him.

The yakuza woman stood slowly from her seat, making brief eye contact with the eldest of her allies before returning her specs to the woman she had no control over. Only hope. When they left the scene, leaving a mess of overturn tables and broken glass, Junko’s eyes stayed glued to the exit. Whatever was eating at Bel was beyond Junko’s concern-- it’s the one who’s tagged along she’s worried about. What a party. For now, she couldn’t think of how else to approach the situation besides glancing toward the Bates. Her eyes read only one thing, as did many others. What’s their next move?

For the first time since he'd wandered into the Little Lady, Gunner chuckled when Simon regarded the whip-cream monstrosity Jubes ordered, lips twitching up into a little smile. It might've been the drubbing pangs pulsing against his temples, or the lack of sleep tickling at his humor, but he shrugged his shoulders and tipped an eyebrow up, eying the bearded bartender over his shoulder, “God knows why you sell these things, Jona.” Sugary nonsense, metaphoric implications aside. It represented nothing to him, though someone else might've seen it as claws extended and hackles raised. Snubs read between catty lines, reserved for barbed words, and glowering glares. It wasn't his way of doing things, so he thought nothing of it. Instead, Gunner turned his attention towards the approaching blue-haired lass he'd often seen working here, of all places, though he knew her from the days she dated Simon. Sienna. Nice girl. One of the few friends he actually approved him of having. He offered her a curt nod, and a smile, before his gaze drifted back towards the sea of people, swimming against transparent currents: all too dangerous and surrounded by lurking bears, waiting to snatch them out of the water.

A soft sigh sifted from his lips, as he set down the second shot of whiskey and turned his attentions back towards the only one that snared his attention—decked in white lace, dainty movements, and a goodness that trailed through the black tar of the present individuals like sunlight invading dark spaces. After handing a bill to the small, bundle of grinning little girl, he watched as Senna plopped herself beside Bel and Chloe, leaning into whatever conversation he was intent on, smarmy smirk oozing carnal innuendos, most likely making sly invitations to his sheets, in his arms, as he always did. He recognized the look, anyhow. Seen him work his magic and try to coach him into the same slimy conventions, even though he preferred cold sheets than meaningless romps and awkward mornings, chased by ensuing departure attempts. It was too much, and as brazen and caustic as his temper was, he'd prefer a constant companion rather than infrequent lip-bites, thigh kisses, and crippling thoughts wondering if they were the only ones involved.



Between hearing the hiss and crackle of glass crunching betwixt a hand and a frigid growl, all too familiar to his ears, Gunner stepped away from the counter and tensed his shoulders, his own hands curling into bruised fists, still ripped and scarred and scabbed over from his last fight. This was a train wreck in the making and they were both hurtling in front of it, heedless of the lights and the rumbling tracks, and maybe just a little antsy to slam themselves against it. A sordid tornado designed to tear apart everything in its path, raging against buildings, people, tables and ten-year grievances that wept like open sores, packed with salt. The drumming in his ears threatened to block them out. Everything besides the stalking individual that had once been his best friend, licking his chops for a scuffle. For a beginning and an end, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he cared. In a matter of seconds, Senna billowing out a protective circle around her much larger brother, small cry above the silence, an ineffectual stopping sign.

Bel rounded on his like a hound waiting to rip out someone's throat and here he was, stepping up to the plate, baring it like a dare, murky eyes staring bullets, staring daggers, promising that this fiasco would end if that was what he wanted. Gunner's blood sang in his veins and pumped a muscle against his jawline, bouncing whenever he mashed his molars together. His breath heaved out in a hiss, and his hands splayed open, sweeping out in a wide arc that might've said go ahead and fucking do it. If he was anything at this point, he was fucking tired of Bel's accusations, weary of his perpetual venom. They fluctuated between two constants: a raging tempest eating up the shoreline, gnawing at the earth until their island became smaller and smaller, and a history that spanned the ages, one that was difficult to ignore. There were buttons there that only they knew how to press, and they did, infrequently, when the silence between them bubbled over the edge, and stained the ground they stood on. It wasn't poetic. It was a fucking shit-show. And he wasn't even sure how it'd happened, only that a bull was pawing at the ground, and his patience was waning thinner.


It was Dominic who stayed his twitching hands, cutting through the tension with two distinct words: stand down. As if someone had pulled a leash tight against a slavering hound who was ready for blood, Gunner exhaled sharply and licked his lips, stepping out of Bel's line of fire. At least, out of range. So focused on the destructive force in front of him, he hadn't noticed Jona slipping in from behind the counter, landing a crackling blow with his cane, straight across Bel's back. Jolting him back to reality, maybe. He doubted it.

It hadn't occurred to him that he should reach for the glock nestled at his spine, curved into his jeans, even as Bel's hand drifted from behind him, brandishing his own piece, waving it in front of the bearded bartender's nose, unflinchingly. As soon as it swayed in his direction, Gunner's heart lurched and the same restrictive fury threatened to bubble from his parched throat, and culminate into a fist, “You are so fucked, Bel. C'mon pull the trigger.” Because Bel didn't know what the fuck he was talking about and as much as he wanted to correct him... his words jumbled against his tongue, stacking like fallen cards and if he wanted to capsize all the dominoes, he'd have to wait.

And as if nothing stranger could happen in this place, at this time, Hani drifted in like a pixie, flapping her small hands against Bel's elbow and whispering as softly as a mouse that he needed to get out of there. A dainty, delicate spirit whisking in to save the day, as she usually did. He hadn't seen her in awhile. Not since their impromptu break up, contrived by her stern-faced family. He was too much. Too dirty. An ugly compromise of violence and gnashed teeth. Comprised of too many things that did not settle in their palms, and if he was something that couldn't be controlled, he wasn't made for their tiny, virtuous daughter. Strangely enough, Bel complied. Gunner ignored the flare of mossy resentment as they bustled out of the establishment and smoothed his trembling fingers across the front of his pants, though he couldn't exactly pinpoint why he was shaking. His gaze flicked over to Dominic and met his, he nodded and slumped back against the bar, mouth set into a firm line, mulling over Bel's words, grinding them into chewable morsels. Jasper, Chloe, and most others who were looking like deer in the headlights. Suppose he couldn't blame them.

Don't you fucking look at her.

Gunner wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly who he was talking about even as he slunk out the door, led by the cupid-faced fairy. From the growing din of murmurs, and individuals sitting back in their seats, he could hear Senna blubbering out apologies, trying her best to smooth any ruffled feathers. He rolled his gaze towards the ceiling and closed his eyes for a few seconds, attempting to smoother down the growling pull to use anything and everything that could drown out Bel's words, to smother a pillow over the stagnant energy sizzling acidic spirals in his belly: unspent energy threatening to spill over. It was Junko he looked to next, leveling a mildly apologetic stare, though he knew he had little to apologize for. Never a dull moment with the Bates and Zaires circulating in the same room. He wasn't sure what to say to her, though he might've suggested following Hani out. Wasn't sure why, either. Smoothing a hand through his hair, Gunner maneuvered himself away from Jubes, and Simon, and perched himself beside Senna. A few feet away, close enough that he'd be noticed and far enough to... he didn't know, seem less threatening?


“What the hell was that?” His voice was a low hum. Barely audible, a whisper. Enough that she'd need to lean in to hear what he was saying. So that she'd need to pay attention. He didn't like seeing her like this. Fixing Bel's mistakes, flustered and embarrassed and stricken with a need to set everything back on the right path. A rankled hand stopped her movements, pressed her purse down as his free hand fished his wallet from his back pocket. He didn't look at her right away, though he did retract his fingers from hers, and he turned to regard Jona, “I'll pay for the damages, Jona. Everything's fine. No more trouble.” She wouldn't like him handling her business, so he wouldn't act like that was what he was doing. Business was business, and as much as it was his to knock people down a few pegs, Dominic didn't like burning bridges when they could be mended.

---

---

There was a sort of melody to the way each individual reacted to the scene at hand. Backs drawn straight, shoulders squared up, eyes sharp and watchful; hands lingering either on the cold, deadly steel resting inside their coats, or ready to grab anything else in a second of fight or fight…because there would be no flight in this company. One could take this moment, attach classical music to it, and call it art for those more fortunate to gaze longingly at.

Reactions were quick, swift here and taunt there, a group of those waiting for orders, and a handful of those ready to take action. It was no surprise to Dominic when Jona moved first. Limp or no, a man protecting what he owned was no less threatening than a lion protecting it’s young. The strike that landed across Z’s back wasn’t a winning blow, but instead a warning; one Dom hoped Bel would take in stride. Gunner obviously waiting for a reason, waiting for Dominic to let go of his leash so he could just pounce. Each detail swirled around him while his jaw clenched, teeth ground together.

After the initial violence of first responders, there was a silence through The Little Lady as Kingpin and Chef faced one another, separated only by the dark threat resting in Bel’s outstretched hand. The words from the oldest Zaire’s lips rang through Dom’s head, wrapping around his mind in a vice grip that refused to let go and promised to seep poison all the way down to his heart. Protect your family; said in so many different tongues he wasn’t sure if he even knew who was who anymore. It wasn’t the first time he would hear it, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The sacred law. The one rule. Necessary, regardless of the evils of the trade. Necessary.

Small, pale, fragile…placing herself in the middle of a fire just waiting for a chance. Brave, or ignorant, depending on where one stood. Willing to be burned by the wildfire that would strike eventually, because Cristobel Zaire was a match that would never be put out. Not by her or any other. Not by those who grew in the dark, or by those who could see the shards of broken light.
Surprising control, eased tension, slowly lowered violent promises. Dominic met Gunner’s gaze first, giving a slow nod before his brother slumped against the bar, still vibrating with tension. Next, Simon’s, eyebrows raised, a question that didn’t have to be asked. Dominic gave another nod, assuring. Senna’s voice, catching his attention, adding her belief that Bel needed to leave, get out, go. A goddess in the sea of a world unholy, baby’s-breath decorating her hair even after all the years, shining too brightly not to be in the nights sky…

“Don’t you fucking look at her” piecing through his heart shaper than any blade that had ever done the same to his skin. Dominic’s gaze never faltered, watched the shudder of small shoulders from the uneasy breath. Until Bel was gone, and distraction came in purr he knew all too well, behind a veil of lightly blown smoke.

Large brown eyes blinked up at him, lush pouty lips curving into a slow smirk as soft fingers glazed over his, dislodging the glass of whiskey he still had a firm grip on. He let it go, tension dropping from his shoulders with the knowledge that it was over.
She had always been good at distracting him from the messes laid at his feet. He’d much rather lose himself in her, fingers tangled through long brown hair, hands pressed to curves he knew all too well. His eyes slid over the tight material of her dress, caught on the deep dip of the neckline that left little to the imagination of the swell of her chest. Tongue swiping across his bottom lip before he placed his cigar between his teeth once more, accepting the press of a glass back into his palm.

He followed her attention across the room, watched with tightness in his muscles as Gunner drew up next to Senna. Gathering a comment on the back of his tongue, he was relieved slightly to see the man go for his wallet instead. Good man, Dominic thought with vague approval. Mend bridges, before they fall to pieces.

"Never mind, I think I can guess." As Dominic’s gaze continued to travel, her words left him with the reminder that he’d never been attracted to innocence. Dark hair, mischievous eyes, and mildly damaged. Didn’t matter the gender, hardly mattered the person; felt like home, felt like something he knew how to handle. Something he refused to think on more…Apt fingers switched smoke for the burn of alcohol, and Dom gave one affirming nod to the woman in front of him.

“Mmhmm.”

---

---

Where would her bones go to rest if this was all that lie ahead? To sooner be found in a grave than a bed as a means of peace was morbid to contrive all together, but this was a habitual theorem. Where there was war there was masochism. Suicide wasn’t the ultimate form of self annihilation. Being dilatory in the madness was. Fucking flagrant. Avoiding all the exit signs, fingers twisted ‘twix those of the ones you loved the most, who pulled you away from fire escapes swearing that adjusting to the smoke was all you needed to do and the blaring alarm would eventually become just stark background noise.

At sixes and sevens one second, apologies the next. Childhoods composed in such luxury rarely did a bang up job of establishing p’s and q’s [properly at least], but Senna had it down pat. Suppose that’s what came of constantly walking the same tight rope only a few steps behind her brother. Always at the heels of a ticking time bomb and learning one thing from it: discipline. Reserve. The strength of apologies, resolve, recognized mistakes, and reconciliation.

The truth of it is, you gotta’ make your own decisions. Step up. ‘Cause if you don’t take a step, the world will take it for you. And that can get really God damn dangerous.

The amount of times Senna had been in this very same situation was unable to be juggled by hands or feet. She’d accepted a long time ago that she couldn’t harbor any real loathing for it, that this is just how Bel was and how he’d always be. If he wasn’t jumping the gun for a beautiful woman or greenback proprietary, he was either sleeping or in a fist fight. He’d been known to eat his heart out only among few. From the look of Gunner’s face, mussed with splenetic storm astern to her brother’s apparent rhetoric, he’d long forgotten that part of Bel, too. But Senna didn’t. And if Julia had half a heart or brain, she didn’t either. To be known true blue and bare was rare in this world at all. More with these two families. If Bel went six feet under any time soon, the chiselings of philanthropy and kindness might not be found on his headstone. But a monster? That’s something he wasn’t. He still had close-mouthed dreams, fire in the belly about eventually going somewhere better. Being better. The sad thing was his pride and comfortability in malice, in money. He stuck around this long to settle scores, perhaps with a swelled head. But somewhere buried deeper than the secrets behind their father, was heavy love. His chest just never much caved to show it. Guess it couldn’t, not when every side of the world he knew swung baseball bats and blasters in his direction.

However, no excuses were made for the arrogant rush of testosterone ruining somebody else’s day. Senna never even entertained the thought of pardoning it or following her brother out. Hani could handle this one. Everyone knew that girl was fuller than the temple for mercy and moderation, something few lineages in proximity had. And she could stop him. She did stop him. With feather-fine efficiency, swept him right out, hushed the gunshot bedlam coming out of him and coaxed him into the calmer night.

Digits went staggering for amends before Hani had gotten him to the doors. Senna propped her handbag open, shuffling through it, not realizing she’d began to express her regrets in Spanish novels. It wasn’t until eerie quietude took the atmosphere by storm that she paused to look up. She’d gone glassy with remorse and humiliation. The white of her eyes strained to stay chaste, and breakers eating the dust of ocular tensity made her blink like Bambi would at a shotgun. Mercurial nerve loss. A tick brought knuckles to her brow bone, then to a high cheek where an unalloyed beauty mark resided on the right side. She thought hard. Pursed lips sealed temporarily while her scrutiny fell back to ATM-fresh bills. “I would really like to square up in more than just money,” she whiffed in this bitty feline fashion, “I can’t apologize enough. I’ll help clean up and - whatever you need, I would like to compensate you for your... Your losses. My brother has zero sense of reproach and I am so, so sorry.” She’d said this all a hundred times. It brimmed fluently from her but she was no less genuine, sable lofty lashes trying to bat away the cerebral pain. A headache slithered from the notches of her mental, in due time accompanied by a far more physical presence. She’d been a bit meek to meet his survey. Thankfully he was hardly giving it.

Politic Gunner. Wise enough not to gnash his teeth too loudly and streetwise to the point of knowing safe distances at the drop of a hat. Or, almost-bar-fights and family-brewed, brazen ballistics. He’d spoken in such a noiseless tongue that it took her a minute to form the words. Anxiety stabbed itself into her neck as she reclined sideways on the bar for a minute to reply, currency in hand. Secondary to his admission, “Some bullshit,” slipped out of the side of her pout, “Please don’t be so austere, G. This was not your fault, por favor no lo hagas.” To be subliminal was not entirely out the window, so her movements were vague and gentle. Senna grazed his gesture for his wallet with an elbow, careful to only barely touch him. As expected he refused. Wasn’t much for letting her clean up after anyone but herself, something he expressed plainly on more than one occasion. But she could feel the tremble in his posture from being hot under the collar. From labored inhibition. Which in turn made her only want to jam his wallet back into his pocket, pay off Mr. Little Lady with her own money and see herself out. Maybe text Gunner ‘round the witching hour mark asking if she could come fix him some morphine tea and explain. She held all the tickets and manifested as the tax of disturbance dealt by Bel, and it made her tired. Worse. Sober.

Just let Gunner handle it kid.

But God damn. Wasn’t it her mess to handle? Sure was with Bel outside, no doubt in her mind trying to butter Hani up and mew ‘sorry’ tenfold while completely forgetting what a shit show he had put on. Regardless, Gunner meant no ill intent, didn’t want this on Senna’s plate. No one on his side did. Except for Julia, and lookit’ here, she got what she wanted. ‘Cause at the end Senna was taking the heat in all reality, like good old Jubesy knew she would. One fatal flaw put Julia’s game plan off though - Gunner’s integrity. It would only spark up more rage, but for now she’d receded somewhere. Probably to stalk out the situation with Bel and his nightly flavor, not like she was about to offer any explanation for the scene to her brothers.

Senna wasn’t surprised by the raging rejection that Jona fire-breathed. When his wife came in to intervene, Baby just nodded, avowing her appearance in the morning because really, what else could she do, now? She glanced at Gunner, shook her head and backed up.

Temperance made her teeter. Like chinaware on the bad tail of a richter scale. “If you wanted to get snowed in together later,” she sidelined, “I think I might know what happened.” She simpered, gracious, knowing only he heard the flat invitation with her back to him. If he took her up on it there was a 90% chance they wouldn't even discuss the chain of events. They knew each other well enough by now to gauge conversations in time spent together, right? She felt the looming shadow of him, torrid and tickling her spine. Whatever they decided to tell later followed the code of few dull moments either way.

Night’s still young, even if busted in framework. Senna was at the edge of the room then, smoothing fabric that had been scrunched by her grip and released in pastel green rimples that were dampened with cold sweat. From the corner of her eye, a small head quavered back into existence. Out of camouflage, with perplexity finding her at her father’s side, was the same little girl from earlier. Senna now presumed ‘Jona’ as leader of the pack and terribly rustled man. Father. A strikingly whiskered figure who’d hammer the fear of God into anyone with a look or, as fate had it, a cane. Just the thought of absorbing that kind of blow made Senna wince. And made total sense. “Hey,” she lulled to Jona’s cub, “You’re lucky you know? Your papa eats bozos like my brother for breakfast. I wish I had his appetite, then I wouldn't be in so much trouble right now.” Modulation of her words curled around Colombian articulation in an almost maternal song. She spoke the way her mother always did, rarely raising her voice. Always steady. Like the last thing a person desired to hear before falling into REM, not only comfort and safety from nightmares, but promise to protect them the next day and all that followed. And that was enough. For now.

Dialing it back, Senna rounded to be met with a chimerical phantasm in drawn material. White teeth flashing behind steamy prattle, surely something she’d heard before. November. The sweetest of all miasmas, just in the way she shifted rolling hips. A Bel backer but not a lap dog. Senna closed the distance, chin resting on her shoulder with a tilt that let lips tickle the nape of her neck, “Hold me,” she joked, “My brother is a jackass, I’m but frail and weak. And overworked. And underpaid.” She beamed over November’s bone structure at Dominic who held a full glass. Esteemed him with words not found but the velvet of seeing his face again after so long. Nothing had granted her a bed of roses - but the consciousness of guitar strings slid across by fingers, now scarred and tattooed with rugged strife. They still weren’t ordinary. Not even in a place like this. And she felt at ease, pulling a slipped stem from behind her ear and laying it over the top of his glass. Floral restitutions never mislaid. Not even at the fists of someone who weighed in at two hundred pounds and ground his teeth at her family name, never. The love between these two was effective anesthetic in a world of malady and bloodshed. Toasted to with tacit oaths to never come apart or go blind when there were motley gardens waiting for them, some place at the edge of town where their damnation hadn’t yet touched.

“I’m gonna’ dip. See you later, maybe, Nov.” She’d brushed between Simon accidentally on her exit, arm snaking away from November and skimming the finer fabric of his pieced ensemble. Nice. Steamed, pressed, perfected. Even up to the shaped eyebrows and hedged facial hair. He’d make a hell of a fashion consultant, if he was his own, that is. A petite nod of approval and a quiet, “Sorry,” and she was moving through the dissipating crowd once again that only once grabbed her attention as she escaped.

Still here? Junko was inhabiting the post-entropy with intimidating polish but had found her attention snarled somewhere else. Senna could guess a few things, knowing that she sat at the second sovereignty of a formidable clan. Whatever was witnessed was small time shit for her. She’d fried way bigger fish just in the time it took most people to get dressed for work, so she may have been less concerned about what had Bel PMS’ing. Buuuuuuuuut taking her mode into consideration, she assuredly saw him as a smirch on the evening. Maybe Hani too. And Baby could not argue that him getting his mucky paws on her was a disaster in the making. Please don’t look my way and think I have anything to do with that.

October could have gone a little easier on its wind chill but the compromise was a low sixties strength that made it possible to wear dresses in a whirlwind of apricot leaves. A breeze whisked through her delicate build as she fared toward a flickering row of street lights, into twilight. She retrieved a cigarette, failing to find a lighter in her bag when the goosebumps from autumn’s wheezing made her raise her focus. Fancy finding you here.

His eyes were pitted apart by a narrow nose and hollower than the history he was known for, not just their own. Striated, he didn’t even smirk to acknowledge her. Only gazed into her without surprise. Like he knew she’d be down this road in particular. She wondered what had him at the same place, if the hands that moved to light her up were in anyone’s entrails lately. But if there was anything she’d learned from Aedan over their seemingly sempiternal scores, it was to not be surprised. Not by the needle nor nerve. Not by the scarlet-soaked slacks that didn’t make it quite into the hamper but instead threatened to bathe tile in DNA. He always cleaned up his own messes and everybody else’s. Made a killing doing it - and yes, that’s a considered conceit. A breath held itself in her sternum, mouth sulking for a moment and splitting into a smile at the turn of events, “Gracias, stranger,” gray coils hissed from a glowing cherry, “Are you just wandering or working?” She also knew with Aedan, she never had to worry. There was no fear associated with him in the way other people cowered. But was he scary? Absolutely. To her? No. Could he be if he wanted to? Yes. “Tuve una mala noche. Bel caused a whooooole mess back there, wanted to kill Gunner for some stupid...” She caught herself, refrained immediately, “Ah, fuck it. Nothing important. You got time to get a drink?” Aedan was different. A man of his word. Cold blooded, sharp, and every bit the dingo that would eat your baby.

It’s just the god damn heroin...

---

"Find the most scandalous piece you have in there."

Hands shook uneasily as they trailed over unfamiliar fabric, brow furrowed. The stench of week old perfumes clung to... Inappropriate and clearly not sanctioned dresses and skirts that had met the night of sinners one time too many. Eyes squinted in the dimly lighted room - a problem she has encountered day in and day out since she had first come to this lovely yet horribly placed little sanctuary - silence tearing through the occupants with a sense of anticipation and silence. A lip curled in, pearl white teeth capturing it in concentration, attention shifting to how dry that lower lip was, ever so slightly chapped -

Startlingly, her weight shifted, someone impolitely pushing her to the side with a sense of urgency. As she caught herself just barely in the small room with dim lighting and the otherwise uneven floorboards of often failing wood, her grey eyes strained to contain themselves. Prudence mentally prayed for the sinner, her smile returning to her ever so slightly chapped lips that she definitely must fix before going out on this very unusual assignment with unorthodox attire with her... 'Supervisor.'

Prudence could do tasks well enough - cleaning, cooking, leading prayer, organizing prayers, and even running through verses of the Bible with the preacher and Sisters for the homily - but never before had she been requested to perform a... Dare she say it? 'An unChristian activity that would suck the light of the Lord from her within mere seconds of her participation'? No, no, no, this was beyond horrible! She had been running prayers through her mind the moment she received the order but as a Sister in training how could she refuse an order directly from the Head Sister?

---

"Tell me, Sister Prudence," a wise voice replied earlier that day. Sunlight leaked just so through the windows, too bright to turn off the light but too dim to attend to activities requiring minuscule detail without the strain of eyes. Of course, no one dared suggest they closed the blinds and turn on the lights - the Lord provided them with His gift of sunshine, even this weakly carried kind.

At a table, two woman - an elderly woman with a dark cloth covering ebony hair, glasses hovering over the bridge of her nose, and a younger woman, not young but closing in on the end of her young years - resided across from each other, a checker board placed before them, game pieces scattered too and fro upon the wooden board. The one speaking, the elderly woman, shifted her gaze to the young women currently residing on the other side of the room. Prudence, on bent knees in front of a statue of the Lady of Guadalupe - in this community they had to refer to her by the name the community used - recited a solemn Amen, fingers tapping her forehead, heart, and finally her shoulders, before raising her eyes at the uncompleted call. She offered a bright smile as she always did, teeth glinting at what little light leaked into the room from the windows.

"Yes, Sister Marijo?" Prudence's voice lilted sweetly, eyes concentrated on the reverend leader - well, at least one of the leaders but definitely the most revered - of the settlement. She stood, not attempting to flatten the wrinkles of her skirt. Marijo's eyes scanned over the new recruit, the corner of her mouth curled in a knowing smile. Prudence beamed, glad she could bring about such a smile to the Sister's face.

The Head Sister parted her attention from the trainee for but a moment, calmly moving a piece and nodding at the Superior Sister across from her to move. "From what I am told, you have not been outside of this building yet. Other than, of course, arriving from..." Her velvet brown eyes returned, a glint of memory attempting to function from behind thick glass. "Virginia?" Prudence's head bobbed, proud to have deserved such attention from the respected figure after having been in the area for the past few days. "We have not talked before, Sister Prudence, please, tell me more about why you chose to join the Order of the Living Spirit." The woman settled back, hands folded on her lap and getting comfortable, only moving with minimal effort to move checker pieces.

Delight spiked up her spine, smiling ear to ear. Her hands clasps together as she gave a sharp nod. "Gladly, Sister Marijo. I had originally come from Virginia and have always been devoted to our Lord and Savior but never fully understood how to carry out His will-"

"His?"

Sister Marijo's opponent had stepped into the conversation, gaze not leaving the game in front of her. As always, Sister Guadalupe interrupted with some sullen comment, border-lining some form of... Annoyance? Prudence had not idea what she had said that upset her superior so but either way the other... Made her feel unnerved. It was probably because she was new! Sister Guadalupe would warm up to her eventually. Or perhaps she has but wished for Prudence to prove herself? Before she could reply, a voice answered in her stead.

"Please, Sister Guadalupe, allow her to continue." Sister Guadalupe turned up with an almost annoyed expression, lips snarled with a desired come back but passed off as an attempt to find the next move. Her fingers moved forward deftly, the darkness of her fingers meeting a rose colored palm. Prudence always found a fascination with the other’s hands, no matter how much they disliked each other. They were not as delicate and dainty as her own but stronger as hours at this settlement could have brought about. She wondered if the pinkness of her palm also came from such work.

A small cough brought her into reality and she snapped her eyes away from the board, hands clenching one another in concentration before resting them on her lap. ”Thank you, Sister Marijo. I have done my best to carry out His will,” Prudence put perkily, smile widening to its original form. “Upon hearing about the Order of the Holy Spirit, which was located close to my home, I decided to join. I was more than willing to participate in this test introductory course - being the first to try out something like this is exciting! But I knew that coming here to spread the Word of God is a righteous activity that deserves the attention of all."

"I see... I see..." The Head Sister replied, now taking the time to execute her own move on the checker board. Prudence watched as the elderly Sister hummed to herself, leisurely responding to the move with little strain unlike the deep concentration of Sister Guadalupe. Without turning, the Head Sister continued. "Sister Prudence, how do you expect to spread the Word of God from inside the sanctuary? After, there are none to preach to other than those who have already learned of the Word of the Lord?"

A laugh escaped the opponent as she too made a quick and decisive move. ”Preaching to the choir,” she coughed, the age old adage causing Prudence some alarm. What was wrong to preaching to people who wanted to understand one’s own take on the Word of the Lord? Was it so bad to be surrounded by like minded individuals like that of the settlement?

A few more moves passed, the silence filled with the clicking of checker pieces and the occasional praise from Sister Marijo to Guadalupe. Prudence remained standing, unsure of what to say or who to say it to. As the game concluded - Sister Guadalupe’s persistent thoughtfulness had won her the match - Sister Marijo once more turned to Prudence, eyes concentrated on her and her answer. Prudence smiled brightly waiting for some answer to fall on her lips from the Almighty or some inkling of memory to slip in and rescue her. After all, such a simple question could not faze her, could it? No, no. It must not.

With a gentle sigh, Sister Marijo turned to the fourth Sister in the room who had remained silent to that point. ”Sister Mary?" A head raised, tearing away from the ceiling. Apparently, the young woman had been dozing, her head having been lolled back and resting comfortably against the arm of the chair, her body taking up what remained of the couch.”Please take Sister Prudence outside with you. One of the more active restaurants.” The Sister sat up almost immediately, jaw hanging ever so slightly.

Her reaction was not the only one.

Sister Guadalupe glanced up at Sister Marijo, then Prudence, followed by Sister Mary. Her brow raised in curiosity, one of the only expressions that Prudence has seen other than some form of disdain. Prudence, herself, could consider the reaction a bit… Underexaggerated. The shocked silenced them, almost making Prudence fish eyed at the suggestion. How could such a request be made of her - a God loving Christian who followed His commandments to the letter and did her best to make everyone get along with her - to go to an area where - excuse her language - Lucifer’s hell spawn infected those willing to slap the forgiving face of the Lord and doomed to eternal suffering?

"Now, Sister Marijo?" Sister Mary stuttered, glancing over at Prudence almost reluctantly before shifting her attention once more to her higher up. The Head Sister came a soft, elegant nod, turning to Prudence with a smile. For a moment, Sister Mary stared at the new trainee, unsure if the course of action were the wisest. After a quiet examination, however, a brow raised. ”Very well. Come with me, Sister Prudence." Sister Mary slung her legs off the couch, starting to the door but not without turning to check Prudence followed.

In silence, Prudence returned that optimistic smile to her face, nodding to the higher ups before dragging her feet forward - positive, Prudence, think positive! Reaching the door way, a voice called out. ”Before you go, I'd like to bring something up, Sister Prudence." She turned on her heel, a suppressed hope that Sister Marijo was simply testing her ability to follow orders as any sister must do. ”We may be here to teach but that does not mean we are not here to learn as well." Prudence felt her head tilt, confused. What could they learn about religion from anyone else? Were they not the only ones well versed enough in the Bible and how it should apply to daily life?

But a hand tugged her out the door a bit too excitedly.

---

"Here! Wear this!" Sister Mary called out, pressing a dress - should this even be called a dress - into her hands. Prudence gawked at it, fingers trying to become familiar with the strange… Fabric. It itched under her fingertips, reeking of sin and a strange and dingy perfume that - wait was that a stain? Prudence poked the area with her finger, trying to discern if it was part of the design or if it was actually as she suspected - a symbol of sin.

Her eyes raised, meeting Sister Mary’s. Her smile remained but eyes darted between her.. ‘guide’… and the guise of a demon. ”I… Um..."

Sister Mary let out a bubbly giggle, going through the closet for her own skin of sin. ”Come on, we can't go against Sister Marijo's orders.” That said, she began undressing on the spot, causing Prudence deep alarm. Red and turning away, she began to undo the buttons of her shirt, feeling the exterior she had for so long disappear in an instant to be covered by some strange itchy fabric of a deep red with a stain of some sort on her lower back - dried by now so she didn’t feel it but it irked her ever so much because she knew it was there-

"I... Find this extremely uncomfortable-" Prudence began, turning and again shocked into silence. Sister Mary’s cleavage peeked out of the strapless dress, almost daring to fall out. The sides of her stomach were completely exposed and… Were those stilettos? Prudence felt herself falter and fall deeper and deeper into sin for simply staring at such a sight. Where was this woman’s modesty?!? They were Sisters! Why in the world would Sister Marijo suggest such a thing?

"Let's go! Time is a wasting!" Sister Mary cried out, throwing on a jacket and tossing one to Prudence. In a split second, she moved to grab a bag of sorts and took Prudence’s hand, leading her through the house in urgency, out the kitchen’s delivery door, and into the cold, unforgiving streets of Brooklyn.

Prudence felt thankful that she had the jacket but confusion still riddled her insides. A click was heard behind her and Prudence spun around, seeing the door closed. Glancing at Sister Mary who was heading in the opposite direction - away from the light of Jesus - she reached out and attempted to open the door once more. The doorknob refused to give way. Her hand raised, about to knock, but stopping.

This was a test.

The Lord was testing her, putting her in the skin of the devil, allowing her the ability to sin despite her obvious faith - a Book of Job moment! Yes! She had to prove herself to not only her Lord but her Sisters as well as herself. Prudence could endure any trial placed upon her. Her grin returning, she trotted after the stilettoed guide who’s silhouette almost disappeared in the dark streets.

For the most part, the night was quiet. She could feel the cool air against her skin, the blessing shine of the Moon glowing down on her… My it was a lovely night. Prudence enjoyed walking side by side with the questionable guide, often exchanging a few words but nothing about this test or the purpose. After all, the Lord worked in mysterious ways. Then of course someone had to come along.

The various smells of the street and honks of distant cars prevented her from noticing the man coming up from behind her, grimy hand reaching out and stroking her arm ever so slightly. She reeled away almost immediately, eyes widened in shock and surprise. Her hand raised, not attempting to hide the disdain from suffering through the man’s stench of intoxicating fumes: smoke, alcohol… Was that one strange smell drugs? How could the Lord make her be touched by something so far from His light? ”Heh... Wouldn't you feel comfortable with a stick up your ass...?" The man slurred, tongue slowly going over his lips. At first, she believed what came out of his mouth and what he did with his mouth were two entirely different things.

Then a second passed.

Appalled, she took a step back. ”Excuse you, I am a Sister and that is extremely rude. Please apologize,” Prudence replied, glancing at her side to see Sister Mary was no longer there. Something sickening leaked into her, heart pounding a mile a minute with pinpoint sharp irises and rapid breaths. Her attention was on the man and his alcoholic breath, his grimy hands, how she felt the dirt and sin through her jacket. He took a step closer, breathing into her face. Her face cringed.

"If you like banging the Bible, you'll love banging me."

"Pru, pay him no mind. He's always out here making some comment or another." That sickening feeling drained away as quickly as it appeared and she hastily left the unwanted conversation without so much as a good bye. Her heart raced and she walked side by side with the Sister, glancing back at the man who, after seeing her run away, had just shrugged and moved on. How did she know that? Why cause her such agony in a single moment? What was the point of all this?

"Sister Mary-" She began before a finger came up at her.

"Just Mary out here, hun,” the other remarked, grinning. As they turned the corner, Sister Mary came to a halt, looking over at Prudence with an overly confident grin that made Prudence uneasy yet… Safe? Was that the phrase? No, this Sister knew what she was doing. Especially if she was about to walk into - excuse her language - Satan’s jamboree? “Welcome to the Little Lady: your first experience to the world outside the sanctuary."

Prudence scanned the area, failing to count the amount of dingy, sinning children that filled the coffin. Her nose cringed upon seeing they had entered near the bar, the reek of drunkards wafting through the air. Men and women alike talked regularly, the light of the Lord hidden from them - the poor souls. ”This is a brooding place for sin, Sister Mary, why are we here?"

"Marijo's orders. Just watch." That said, Sister Mary glanced around the room before leading her to the end of the bar, placing Prudence on the first seat and herself on the left. Her eyes glanced at the bartender. "Virgin Mary,” she requested, waiting for it to come.

Prudence gawked at her. ”Are you ordering alcohol?"

"We're here to observe. Plus, if we hang around the edges and act like newbies, we'll fall prey to predators." The drink came but the most Sister Mary did was stir it. No more words were exchanged, ending their conversation indefinitely.

So Prudence did just that. Sit and watch. Every second that passed, the number of people in the restaurant increased and the number of sins doubled exponentially. She lost count after 30 and that was only a few minutes in. The hustle and bustle of the area caused the noise to become overwhelming and Prudence wondered if this was one of those “raves.” She watched and examined but failed to understand what exactly she was supposed to learn. How to sin? How to sin not as bad? How there are various degrees of sin, unrestricted by age and gender. Wait, did she just see a little girl? The poor dear!

As all was being said… Well, the event moved quickly. All Prudence could recall was raising her head with a start, staring at the man with broken glass embedded in his hand as he began a one man riot, flipping tables, pushing people, having to be restrained.

And then there were guns, a yell, a hit… Then a calm with broken tables and chairs, a group of people wandering around the scene of sin ever so quickly.

A hand reached over, patting her shoulder and nearly causing her to fall off her stool from surprise. ”We should get you out of here. This escalated too quickly,” she muttered, already leading her the long way around the restaurant to the door where other people had begun to file out as well. Prudence searched the area, the faces of anger and grief and confusion and even sadness. They… Did not seem to want it as much as she did not want it to happen.

…These people needed help.

In the chaos and the he said, she said, guns poised and loaded, and scornful words hanging in the thick air, Hani had felt brave [though most might think it was just plain stupid. Completely casting aside the fact that at any given moment, and perhaps not even on purpose, shots would be fired. Though petite, she was not small enough to be missed by a bullet. Nor did she have the power to stop them once they decided to take flight. Why, in this planet and under anything she deemed precious to her, had she concluded that stepping into the middle of a brawl was anywhere near a solid idea, as if she had some kind of incantations that would suddenly make everything upright again. Though she wanted nothing more than to be able to fix other’s problems with a wave of a finger, that wasn’t the case, nor would it ever be. If by any chance she had formulated a plan before making a heroic entrance, it was now completely forgotten. Impromptu strategies of attack were never her strong suit, but perhaps in the hype of the moment she could have come up with something, anything to keep this from escalating. She hadn’t. Not really. Getting Bel out of the bar. That was the plan. That was the only plan. The hows and wheres were still a bit hazy. Actually, they were nonexistent. Nor could she have imagined how effective [or ineffective] her attempt at seizing fire would be. Eyes wide with bewilderment, and perhaps horror, stared the both of them down as Bel squeezed in his last threat before following her out. Hani knew who the subject of the threat was. Not her. Never. All for his beloved sister, his family, the only thing worth fighting for. He wasn’t dangerous... enraged, battered, alcohol induced bravery and all, she still firmly believed so, and judging by the fretful stares given on they way out, she could safely conclude she was the only one.

You’re a good man, Bel

Words that hadn’t been used enough before, not even by her. Someone had to tell him. Though his methods were askewed, the cause was noble. Would her brothers do the same for her? She liked to believe so. She would walk through hell and back, hands full of souvenirs, for those that managed to snatch a piece of her heart, not that such a thing took much effort. One might think she was desperate for love the way she handed it out to everyone, but she wasn’t. Quite the opposite in fact. She was desperate to give it. Namely to those whom didn’t seem to ever have enough, like Bel. A broken man in need of stability. He wasn’t the horrid person spectators made him up to be...not in her eyes.

Not that her view of him mattered

He isn’t the type to care about what others think of him, that much she had pinned down. In her case it wasn’t any different, but in that moment trivial things such as those didn’t matter. Once outside, the harsh air lashing out at them as if it too had a few things to set straight, everything that had just occured felt even heavier. They were out of The Little Lady but were they out of the woods yet?. ”Yeah, hey…” steamed breath and battered hands tucked away steel and Hani knew they were in the clear, at least for the time being. The moon hung over them, watching in silence as if it didn’t dare to speak a single syllable, afraid to reveal the dust hidden beneath the carpet. These encounters were bound to happen one way or another, if not here then elsewhere. More often than not, she wouldn’t be there to do what she just did. More often than not, she would be unaware, and Bel would have to fend for himself, as would Senna. Hani knew they were both more than capable of doing so under any circumstances, and that was precisely what perturbed her. But regardless of how much she’d try, being there at every one of those instances to smooth things over was impossible in every sense of the word. Spending time with the Zaires [and the Bates - and countless others] was forbidden. A word that had been drilled into her mind since leaving the womb.
“I know. I should have known better. Why’d you come up in there like that, huh?”

Why?

There it was again. The million dollar question that not even the most irrational side of Hani’s mind could answer. Could it had been for Senna and her noble attempts at keeping the peace, or maybe Simon and his desire for calm, quiet nights, maybe even for Gunner and his warrior heart, ready and more than willing to take down anyone that threatened his blood, or had it all just been for him...for Bel. I’ll get back to you when I have an answer for that. Not even she could comprehend the works of her actions. Why she did certain things for certain people was a question that never seemed to disappear. She could have just walked out, unnoticed, and saved herself the trouble of being part of a situation she had no control over and no business being in? No. That was cowardly. Something that Hani certainly was not. Small, fragile at heart, but not a coward. She could have gotten hurt, she realized that just as Bel did, but that was true for anyone that had the misfortune of being in there. ”You could have been killed…” she retorted, her tone soft and careful, as if speaking too harshly would cause him to crumble, or worse, turn on her. For all that it was worth, she would stand there quietly as he let his anger out on her if she was certain it would help him in any way. But he didn’t. Instead he apologized, something Hani didn’t hear often.

Am I mad at you? ...Does it matter?

For reasons unbeknownst to her, he seemed to care about being in her good graces, but what right did she have to be angry with him? ”No...no I’m not mad” she spoke as if her words had any weight. Maybe they did, but it never felt that way. One or two steps closer and the distance he had put between them had vanished just as easily as it had appeared. He was unobtrusive now, static, swallowed by the shadows casted by the intimidating New York skyline. Eyes fixated on her, which she ever so slowly dared to meet. The blue-laced decked bandanna framing her tranquil features slipped off of it’s rightful position on her head and was carefully wrapped around bleeding knuckles and palm. It was useless really, but it was all she had to offer, sided with a weary smile.

”But I’m not the one you need to apologize to”

They both knew who she was referring to. The dark haired beauty that had been left behind in a bar chalk full of hostility and thirst for revenge, cleaning up after her brother’s mess possibly for the hundredth time. She was the heroine of this story, not Hani. Small hands wrapped around a rough one, battered and bruised from one too many fights. A five second linger and they were gone, back in the warmth of her pant pockets. She knew her time with him was up. Once it was all clear, she would disappear just as swiftly as she appeared and he would forget all about her, returning to his daily schedule of beautiful vixens, dangerous nights crowded with too much alcohol and not enough sex and a vow to protect his sister’s honor. A place in which he had no room for an inexperienced, insipid girl like her.

Patrons began to scatter, emptying out The Little Lady even quicker than it had filled up. Her gazed lingered on the entrance of the now desolate bar not a second too long, before returning to the broken soul in front of her. Senna had left the premises, she had without a doubt done all she could to mend bridges, now it was Bel’s turn. A bridge burned between friends was unfortunate, but a bridge burned between family was lethal. ”Go on” she encouraged with a gesture towards the angelic presence that was leaving the bar. He no longer needed Hani, assuming that he ever did, and Hani needed a drink. In an instance of panic, he could call her as he usually did, and she would no doubt be there. Not now wasn’t one of those times. Not daring to look back, or wait for him to ask her to stay, she gravitated back towards the scene of conflict, now a lifeless box. Very few people remained, thankfully no one intent on making any more trouble. Jona would only handle so much damage.

Quiet steps made their way back up to the bar. Throwing a quick and apologetic smile in Jun’s direction, because she was no doubt going to get a mouthful from her for her act of idiocy, she waved at the mildly less irritated brick of a man behind the counter. The palms of her hands were sweaty and her heart felt as if it were merely moments from ripping through her pale skin. Her mind fixated on the man she had just walked away from. He'll be fine...he doesn't need you. That was the most logical thought that had passed threw her head that day.

”Could I um...could I get a strawberry vodka please?”.

A haze of regret, adrenaline and apologies. That is all Hani’s night had been. Should it have come as a surprise to her that her family not only found out about what happened at The Little Lady but also that she had been there. That she had willingly put herself in the eye of the tornado. How? She never questioned that anymore. They had their ways and she had her reasons. Apology after apology was all in vain, because, according to them she was defenseless. She couldn’t handle the heat and chaos that came from a situation like that. She was unequipped, useless. Hearing it so often was beginning to carve a brand into her skin. Clueless rich girl, incapable of anything. Might as well tattoo it on her fucking forehead. Maybe then they would stop reminding her.

What would you have done if someone had shot you?

Well that was a useless question. What else could she have done other than die? Excuses and apologies weren’t being heard. Not like they ever were. And why was she apologizing? Just a habit, that was truly the only reason that came to her boggled mind. A habit of "I'm sorry" and "It won't happen again" when it clearly would. When no aspect of what had happened had been her fault. Was she expected to just let two people she cared deeply about tear one another apart? Because she cared. She cared about them more than they'll ever know. Even if she could never fully show it, even if they never figured it out, she would still care. Now there was nothing for her to do but suck it up. Force the words back down her throat and leave in peace. Anything else would just prove to be troublesome. Picking up her furry friend on her way to her bedroom, she ignored that calls of her indignant parents threatening to lock her in as if she wasn’t already. Like a caged in animal. WHy was she back here again? That’s right, because where else would she go if she left.

Nothing but rich kids with fake friends.

Falling asleep wasn’t a struggle. Waking up was. Hani’s muscles ached from the very smallest one in her feet to the biggest one, pumping rhythmically inside her chest. There was a sense of pressure, as if the air was growing thicker, closer, with no objective in mind other than to suffocate her. She woke up with a sudden gasp of air, head spinning, a raven black curtain effortlessly falling over tense shoulders. The tailed companion beside her hadn’t a care in the world. How many times had she wanted to trade places with her. Not that her loving family treated the feline any better. The bottom of her thin tank top rose up slightly as her arms were outstretched over her head. Setting both feet on the plush carpet was only the beginning of her morning. Soon after she stretched as usual, fed her companion [something she never forgot to do because god knows Ella is the only one that’s always there for her] and started on breakfast. None for her this morning. Her stomach was in knots and drowning her sorrows in fluffy pancakes and too much syrup wasn’t going to fix that. Not this time. She needed something new.

No one was up yet. That was always an advantage. Leaving breakfast at the reach of anyone that wanted it, the twenty one year old tip toed her way back up to the bedrooms. Jae wasn’t awake yet, and she wasn’t going to be the one to wake him today. She need the alone time and he needed to rest. Taking a moment to gather some clothes, she stepped into her squeaky clean bathroom. Her reflection frowned back at her as the rundown of the night before slowly worked it’s way back into her psyche. From the bar to the streets to the look on Bel’s face before she left. A sigh escaped her.

Ah Bel...what could you possible want with me?
Otoke…

Her small hands worked their way through the small tangles in her hair. Oh how much simpler would life be if people said what they meant and meant what they said. How many problems that would solve. And no, she didn’t think about this with Bel in mind. Honestly was far from being a problem with him. It was her. It was Hani who hid behind fragile smiles and the occasional comforting smile. That’s as far as she allowed herself to go. No part of her made it possible to speak her mind, and no part of him implied that he needed to hear it. In fact, he would be much better off if he didn’t. The wrong words at the wrong time could be heavier than an anchor.

Another sigh. It was all she seemed to be doing this morning. Through the haze and attempts to divert her mind from all thoughts, and brand new bottle of hair dye jumped out at her. Since a sweet breakfast hadn’t been the answer, maybe this was. A change was certainly never a bad thing Without allowing herself a second for second thoughts, she pulled whatever else she needed to complete the transformation. How long this would last depended on how long ‘til she needed another stress relief. What would come next? Red maybe?

The smell of hair dye woke her senses, finally feeling alert. New. Bleached and air dried hair accompanied by a well coordinated outfit and she was ready to sneak out, not bothering to clean up the mess in the bathroom. No one used it besides her. Leaving it there would give her something to do once she came back. If...she came back.

Of course you’ll come back, where else would you go?

Suppressing another sigh, she pulled out her phone. Who could deal with her this early in the day? Jun was either sleeping or intimidating some trollop that had the nerve to step into her home. Jae was either asleep or pretending not to know that she was awake. Bel… Bel had no need to deal with her today. After the horrific defames that were spoken about him the night before, he would be better off if he didn’t see her for a while… in fact, he would be better off if he didn't see her ever. She flipped through her contacts a little helpless, finally, the corners of her pink tinted lips curling up slightly when she came across a comforting name. Simon never failed to make her feel better. Not to mention how long it had been since they had seen one another. The night before my no means counted.



The odds of him being free were slim to none, but there wasn’t any law against trying. Stuffing the electronic device back into the small pocket of her cut off shorts, she made her way back down the steps just as quietly as she had gone up. Leaving the estate took no effort. Her usual route of escape was still unknown to the rest of the house residents, though she had an inkling that Jae knew. It didn’t worry her in the least. He pretended not to know and not to care, but she knew he did. That was more than enough for her. Once out in the streets of the always bustling streets of New York, she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she had been holding. What now? Wander around on her own was really the only option. As plain and unexciting as that seemed, It was certainly countless times better than being trapped inside that too large house.

A cage is still a cage, no matter how fancy.