Tarik Al-Sayad

Zara wove through the haze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, tray balanced effortlessly on her hand. She stopped at the table with a warm smile, setting down a fresh drink in front of the patron.

“Compliments of the blonde at the bar,” she said lightly, tilting her head in the sender’s direction. Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Now—if you’ve got nothing better to do tonight, feel free to thank them. But I should warn you…” She leaned in just a fraction closer. “Smile too long, and you’ll know more about his childhood than his own mother. Last week he told me the story of his first pet turtle—three times. Same turtle, same ending.”

She straightened again with a little shrug, the grin tugging at her mouth betraying her amusement. “Your call. Drink’s paid for either way.”

Tarik was still nursing his espresso when he heard the familiar voice of his neighbor. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he turned slightly to face her. “While I appreciate the gesture, I don’t drink and I doubt any sane person would actually survive through her turtle saga without any poison in the blood stream.“ He wasn’t exactly known for being the funniest person around but with Zara he felt comfortable enough to make an exception.

While he spoke to her about the blonde, he didn’t even turn around to look at the donor of the free drink. “If you don’t mind, give it to someone else. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste either.“

She finally looked at him. The dim bar light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening nothing. “Just a job,” she repeated slowly, letting the words hang between them. Camila lifted her glass again, the amber liquid catching the light. “So tell me, Detective. What exactly is it about my insomnia that interests the job tonight?” She took another swallow, longer this time, savoring the harsh warmth. She set the glass down with a soft clink, meeting Tarik’s watchful stare head-on. There was no plea in her eyes now, only a weary challenge.

His eyes didn’t leave hers when he shifted a little in his seat to face her fully. “Like I said. I’m off duty tonight. Nothing to worry about. You can just relax. Pretend you don’t know what I do for a living. I won’t judge.“ He smirked at her although they both knew she couldn’t trust him. For more reasons than one. “Is it helping?“ Tarik questioned whilst pointing at her drink. “For the insomnia, I mean.“ It may or may not have been only half the truth but right now he was really not even trying to interrogate her. Not that he wouldn’t take mental notes either way. It was just something he couldn’t control, intentional or not.

He let the crowd’s roar swell around them before speaking again, voice dropping into something smoother, quieter. “Weakness as a weapon—now that’s a line worth rememberin’. Thing is, depends who’s holdin’ the blade. Some men cut with it. Some get cut open by it.”

The cigarette burned down between his fingers. Zion tapped the ash away with the ease of someone too used to waiting games. “Me? I like to keep my eyes everywhere. Horse, rider, track… even the crowd in the stands. Little shifts, little tells. Leave too much up to chance, you’re just handin’ your money away.” A slight shrug, deceptively casual. “I don’t make a habit of handin’ things over.”

He let that hang for a moment, then turned to Tarik with a measured smile. “So tell me, Cairo,—" he has clocked what was left of the accent "—just who in the hell are you? I'm not awfully fond of people knowin' my name when I don't know theirs."

“It doesn’t depend on who’s holding the blade anymore than it depends on who it’s pointed at.“ It wasn’t a challenge, just a matter of fact. Tarik met Zion‘s eyes and held his gaze. Not wavering but also not staring. “Some get cut and some know how to get rid of it before it gets the chance to.“ There were always two sides of a story or a blade in this case and he had to learn to think outside the box early on to survive. Tactics and strategy were just as important as the ability to defend himself if necessary. With weapons or without.

Zion‘s words didn’t surprise him. He seemed like the kind of person who liked to be in control. And Tarik didn’t blame him, considering who he was. “I‘m sure you’ll find out soon enough.“ Tarik mused casually. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide who he was or provoke the other but he was enjoying the situation a bit too much so why not let the Walker heir take a wild guess first?

Zion had staked out a spot near the rail, away from the Walker section proper, where the crowd pressed in tighter and the smell of sweat and bourbon rolled heavier than perfume. He liked it here — closer to the pulse. The horses kicked up dirt as they were paraded out, gleaming hides catching the sun, every step electric with the promise of speed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a man he didn’t recognize. Didn’t wear the uniform shine of Hollywood, nor the nervous edge of some wide-eyed bettor on his first Derby. Something steadier about him. Zion dragged on his cigarette, exhaling slow, before tipping his hat back just enough to cut the man a sidelong glance.

“You look like a man who ain’t surprised by much,” he drawled, voice carrying easy over the roar of the stands. “So tell me—” now he turned, grin sharp as it was curious, “—what’s got your money today? The horse? The odds? Or just the spectacle?”

The words weren’t just idle talk. They were feelers, the kind Zion always tossed out when he crossed a stranger in a place where everyone came to gamble something — money, pride, or power.

"Surprise is for children and fools," he finally said, his accent sanding the edges off the words. "I watch the riders.” Then he paused for a short moment, before he continued. “See that?" Tarik nodded toward a jockey crouched low over a storm-gray horse. "Left stirrup’s half an inch shorter. Compensates for the old break in his ankle. Makes him lean into turns like a pro.”

Bets were not his favorite thing to do but he had to maintain his cover. He peeled a banknote from his roll, crisp and uncrumpled. "Spectacle?" A dismissive flick of his wrist toward the champagne crowd as he huffed slightly. "That’s wallpaper. Money moves where the cracks are."

The thoroughbred reared, hooves slicing air. Tarik didn’t flinch. "You asked where my money sits? On the man who knows his weakness becomes his weapon." His smile didn’t touch his eyes. "But you already knew that, Zion Walker. Or you wouldn’t be testing the water."

It was about four in the morning, the bartender had already cleaned up and was ready to close the doors when Camila walked in. She'd been working late again, avoiding home but a bar was the last place she wanted to be seen at, considering she was a grieving widow, there was an image to maintain in front of the public. That was why she waited until most of the guests were gone. She offered a brief smile to the young man, who was no stranger to her. He’d been working behind this very bar for years and knew more about this city’s habitants than most would care to admit. "Is it too late to order a shot? I won't be holding you up for long. Just need something to help me sleep tonight.”

She knew how to play her cards to get what she wanted. And the poor guy didn't really have a chance to say no anyway. Cami took a seat by the bar, waiting for her drink. While the bartender tried to distract her with some small talk, a very tall man approached them. She'd seen him before, she reckoned but almost didn't recognize him without his uniform. The casual outfit looked better on him, she had to admit. "I hope you're not here to interrogate me again." Her tone was firm but not unfriendly though her eyes carried the slight hint of a warning she didn’t even try to hide. Another reminder of what happened, even more questions she couldn’t, and didn’t want to, answer was the last thing she needed right now.

“Don’t worry. I’m off duty right now.” He mused and took a seat next to her without even asking if it was free but at least he had the decency to murmur a brief “hope you don’t mind” while he did. Then he paused for a moment and shifted his attention to the bartender. “Make it two.” Tarik ordered, tilting his head to look at Camila again. He studied her discreetly, trying to read her. “It’s nothing personal. Just a job.” Once their drinks were served, he pushed her glass to her, before lifting his own. “To a good nights sleep then.” He smirked and took a small sip.

distracted for a moment, she dug into her pocket, looking to see how much cash she had on her. enough for a loaf or two, she hoped. she started to walk over to the bakery stall, admittedly not looking where she was going before she set off. the body that crashed into her managed to hit her directly in the stomach, which got a pained groan out of her. "jeez." she couldn't exactly cuss them out about not looking where they were going because she hadn't been looking where she was going. so, instead, she made a joke out of it. "you pack a real punch, anyone ever told you that?"

Still thinking about his meeting earlier, he accidentally bumped into someone else and the unexpected impact snapped him out of his thoughts. “My bad. Are you alright?” He offered a concerned look and tried to check if the other was fine. A relieved sigh escaped him when he couldn’t see any signs of injuries. “Not that I recall but thanks, I guess. You’re not so bad yourself either. Are you a professional boxer or something?”