p r o d i g a l r u i n

“The cheesecake’s not as bad as the lemon meringue, but it tastes like regret if you’ve had real dessert recently.” She shrugged a shoulder, the motion languid. “Still, it’s soft enough to qualify as comfort food, if that’s what you’re looking for.” She closed the sketchbook partway, careful not to smudge the charcoal, then nodded toward the open booth across from her. “Feel free to sit, if you’re not allergic to mediocre coffee and unsolicited commentary.”

even if she hadn't attended herself, seneca was well aware of the event that the other was referencing. some of her clients had been around during everything that went down, and she'd even been assigned to check in on the barone family once cami was taken to the hospital. indirect involvement had made her wonder : what would she have done if she'd been there ?

" you need to lock your wrist. " she jutted her chin towards dilan's grip on the handgun, finding it easier to look at her hands than at her face. taking a few tentative steps closer, she leaned to peer down range towards her paper target. " and uh, " she pushed a piece of hair behind her ear, " feel free to tell me to fuck off, cause i will, but see how you keep shooting to the right of the target ? it's because of how your holding the gun. "

“Lock your wrist,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. Then, slowly, she adjusted her grip. Clicked the safety on. Rested the gun on the table between them.

Seneca’s nervous laugh dragged Dilan’s gaze back toward her. She looked different in this kind of lighting. Sharper. Or maybe that was just time. “I didn’t say that,” she answered, voice even. “Not that you’ve ever really needed me to.” She didn’t smile, but there wasn’t anger in her expression either. Not anymore. Just that tired sort of knowing that settles into your bones when someone already walked away once.

“You’re right, by the way. About the shooting.” A beat. “Still figuring out what to do with my aim.” She looked back at the target, then offered the smallest tilt of her head toward the bench beside her. “No, you can stay. After all, this is more your territory than mine." she finished, nodding towards Seneca's own target, riddled with well aimed holes. It was as close to an invitation as she could manage.

He watched the shift in her posture with slight amusement. Her words becoming the perfect addition. His expression chaning only once, after she'd mentioned her 'questionable decisions'. "You know, media had created such false idea of people like you." He mused, his voice thick with lingering amounts of tease. "People of art and culture." He clarified, followed by a pause. He swirled the fork between his fingers before slicing a piece from his pie, taking an extra moment to lick the frosting off. "You have no idea what you're missing on." Another bite and a barely audible 'mmm' hum later, Eren met her gaze. "I just like pie." It certainly couldn't beat all the sweet goods his mother made but it was a childhood relic he still cherished. A remnant of a much simpler life. "So what's your excuse? You like the cheap, chalk-like coffee? Or is drinking coffee past midnight one of your questionable decisions?"

“Pie’s not on trial here. You like what you like.” A beat. “Even if what you like tastes like grocery store birthday cake that’s been left out in the sun.” Her smile twitched, just barely. “And I don’t really drink the coffee,” she added, finally tipping her head toward him. “I just order it so Agnes stops trying to get me to try the meatloaf special. She thinks artists don’t eat enough.”

A small sip from the coffee she clearly had no intention of finishing. "What about you? Is this your normal post-closing haunt? Or is it just coincidence you're gracing my night with your presence?"

"You were scared," he repeated, as if weighing the words on his tongue. Then, nodded slowly before, "just because you weren't hit directly, doesn't mean something didn't happen to you." There was no judgment, only rare compassion in his tone because witnessing would be enough for her.

He stood without another word and crossed to the counter, a natural tension lingering in his shoulders - not about Dilan's company but more so about what was left unknown about her and the pieces he had yet to place.

It's a thought that won't rest as he returned with a kettle of tea (better for her nerves than coffee, he thought) and two glasses, setting each down on the table between them, then took his seat opposite her. "Unless you'd prefer coffee. If you have any plans for staying up all night painting." In reference to their previous cafe interaction. He didn't know, though he just figured he'd offer the option.

Fingers curled around the glass now, letting the heat settle into her hands before she took a sip. It helped, more than she expected. “And no,” she added, a quiet smile flickering at her lips. “No painting tonight. My muse only shows up when I’m being a little reckless.”

There was a beat of silence before she looked at him again, steady this time. “You’re surprisingly good at this whole being gentle thing. I didn’t expect that.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing—not unkind, just curious. "Now this seems like a silly question, considering how well you handled yourself. But were you? Scared?" The attack had seemingly come out of nowhere, and the not knowing why would have scared Dilan more than the actual violence. She wondered if he felt the same.

Truth be told, he was confused as to why she was even speaking for a painting that was ugly, in his opinion anyways. Not that he would voice that out loud, didn't want to be told how stupid he was for not seeing all the different brush strokes of Van Gogh or whatever made that fucking thing worth thousands of dollars. "Probably should keep those to yourself," he advised with a small shrug. "Least until someone actually asks."

She tilted her head, just a little, as if seeing him more clearly now. Like he was a canvas too, just not a particularly good one. “I figured if you were brave enough to offer your opinion without understanding what you were looking at, you were brave enough to hear someone else’s.” A pause. “But I can see now that was optimistic.”

Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. She wielded cool detachment like a knife, and her smile was the sort that didn’t bother reaching her eyes. Just a hint of sharp teeth. “Next time, try the natural history museum. Might be more your speed.”

Glancing at the sketchbook laid before the woman, she found her lips curling into a smile as she studied her work. She might not know much about being an artist or interpreting it herself, but she could admire someone else's creativity. "Then what are you here for? The lighting? Inspiration for your art? A distraction from something at home?" It was typical for her to pry into people's lives, but mostly because she wanted to hear what normal civilians with normal jobs got up to for a living. It was remarkable really, the contrast of their lives to her own, so she had to live vicariously through them every now and again. "Is this how you usually battle insomnia?"

As Agnes came over with her milkshake, she thanked the woman before taking a sip, the coldness a nice change from the burning of the tequila she'd been chugging down just before entering the dinner. As the woman asked her a question this time, Val shrugged nonchalantly. "I tend to stay out late so I needed to find the places that would be open so I could get a bite. It's also not owned by certain people, and sometimes, I just like finding a place where the employees get to know me for me, and not because of anyone else. A little anonymity is a breath of fresh air sometimes, you know?"

Her gaze dropped as she turned a page in her sketchbook—half out of habit, half to break the eye contact that had started to feel a little too assessing. The question that followed earned a shrug from Dilan, eyes lifting again, this time thoughtful. “I came for bad coffee and better silence. But the lighting’s decent and you’re right—it does help with the insomnia. Some people drink chamomile tea. I come here and let the smell of fried oil and broken dreams tuck me in.” She didn’t smile at her own joke, but her voice carried the tease clearly enough.

It wasn’t until Valentina mentioned certain people that Dilan’s head tilted, just slightly—something in the phrasing catching on the edge of her understanding like a thread snagged on barbed wire. “‘Certain people,’” she repeated slowly. “That supposed to mean something to me, or is this one of those ‘if you know, you know’ situations?” She leaned forward then, elbows resting on the table, a little amused, a little wary. “Because unless you’re talking about Yelp elites or the city health department, I’m gonna need a bit more to go on.”

It was by her design, of course, keeping her cards and true nature close to her chest in some attempt to keep her one step ahead of those around her. Purposefully shrouding herself in honeyed words and soft platitudes, always so effortlessly personable.

That wasn't to say that this woman had read her entirely, it was far too soon for that, but she had at least correctly identified that she could be in the market for something a little more exclusive. "No but I don't think anyone's should. Seems like too much of a shame to limit yourself to what you already have." A mantra she lived by. More, there was always more.

Light hum of agreement was given, slight nod to show her approval at what had been put forward. "That sounds like an excellent plan. Where do you think we should start?" Brow arched elegantly, equal parts curious and challenge. "If you're half the matchmaker I think you'll be then I might just have to introduce you to some of my friends." An incentive, that if she got it right there'd be more business brought her way. There was no need to specify that there would be discretion, she thought that would be obvious enough.

She set the iPad down gently on the velvet surface between them, the gallery’s secure catalogue already pulled up. Unlike the museum pieces around them, this screen whispered about what could be bought—if one knew where to ask. Dilan hadn’t left the Royal Bidding House empty-handed; she still had eyes in a few of the right places.

“If it’s refinement you want, I’d point you toward a lacquered Qianlong vanity screen—my guess is you’d appreciate the secret compartments.” A slow glance up, deliberate and dry. “But if we’re looking for something with more fire, there’s a myth-fragment mosaic set to hit private rotation in a week. Not exactly subtle, but then again…” Her brow arched, returning the unspoken challenge. “Neither are most women worth remembering.”

Fingertips tapped once, then paused. “Or we skip both and I go off-book. You tell me the last thing you bought that thrilled you, and I try to top it.” A pause, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Unless you’re one of those people who doesn’t let herself get thrilled.”

She leaned back in the booth, crossing one leg over the other as if they were in a café in Istanbul and not somewhere with a sticky menu and a broken napkin dispenser. “And for the record, I’m not a ‘late night diner girl.’ I’m a woman of culture who makes questionable decisions after midnight and occasionally needs somewhere to sit with bad lighting and worse coffee to reevaluate them.”

She tilted her head, studying him a moment with a vaguely amused squint. “Didn’t picture you as the sentimental type. That slice of pie some kind of childhood relic or are you just slowly giving up like the rest of us?”

Curious, and not really wanting to go home alone, she canceled her ride and instead entered a new address to the diner, slipping the driver some cash to settle any complaints and to agree to hit that accept button. Pushing into the diner, Ayla's eyes roamed over the lack of customers before it landed squarely on the lit up dessert case and the hunger that haunted every drunk person made those pies look extremely appetizing. But it was the sound of her roommate's voice that made her turn and abandon the pies. "I'm hungry, but maybe not that hungry." Ayla laughed.

Stumbling over on her heels, she dropped into the booth opposite Dilan and slid in across the sticky vinyl. "What are you doing here?" She asked, shooting her friend and roommate a smile as she reached for one of the yet again sticky menus behind the napkins. "I am actually hungry though, you want anything?"

“You canceled your ride, didn’t you?” she said instead of hello, one brow raised, her tone dry but not unkind. “God forbid you go home to an empty apartment and let me wallow in peace.” Still, she didn’t move as Ayla slid into the booth, only gave a small, crooked smile as if to say fine, stay then, before taking another sip of her bitter coffee. At the mention of food, she glanced toward the counter like maybe something edible would magically appear. It didn’t.

“I’d tell you to avoid the pie, but apparently that’s controversial now.” Her tone lightened a touch, and she tapped her fingers along the ceramic mug. “I was thinking of heading back soon, but… if you’re ordering, I’ll split fries.” It may have been too late for dinner, but it was always time for girl dinner in her heart.

She leaned back, observing her for a moment, the gloss of her eyes, the glitter still clinging to her collarbone. “You look like you’ve had more fun than me tonight. Celebrating anything specific or are you just celebrating the general chaos of existence again?”

Her fingers adjusted on the grip, not quite trembling, but with the kind of care that betrayed her newness. "Maybe," she said quietly, glancing at the rifle before her eyes returned to Seneca. "Or maybe it’s just a good idea. I’ve survived a few too many parties lately. Figured I should stop relying on charm and luck."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "Powerful’s a bit generous. Right now I’m just hoping I don’t break my shoulder trying to aim this thing."

But she didn’t move away. Not yet. Her voice dropped slightly, not for effect, but because there was something in Seneca’s expression that made her tread softer, even now. "Damn, you always had a habit of showing up when I’m just getting good at forgetting you."

The door leading to and from the kitchen opened up a moment later, and she whipped her head back around to see her favorite late night employee. "Evening, Agnes. You know what I'm here for." She greeted, and the older blonde lady just nodded before going back into the kitchen, and Val shrugged nonchalantly as she made her way over to the woman's table. "I steer clear of the pie anyway, but thanks for tasting it so I never have to." She joked, sliding into the seat across from the other brunette. "Go for the milkshake next time. One guaranteed thing they can't screw up. I could tell you what to order and how to ask Agnes for it, but I don't think I've ever seen you in here during any of my late night stops. Please tell me this isn't one of those food tour things where you're just making your way through the city trying out everything? if that's the case, you're the one who likes to be disappointed, and wasting your money. The Yelp and TikTok reviews can save you a fortune, you know?"

"You absolutely look like you enjoy disappointment," she said flatly, reaching for her coffee with the kind of slow, deliberate motion reserved for early mornings or long nights. “Or at least like someone who flirts with it recreationally.”

She took a sip, grimaced. Let the silence hang long enough to suggest she might leave it at that. But she didn’t. “I’ll take your milkshake recommendation under advisement, but I’m not here for the cuisine.” A glance at Agnes’s swinging kitchen door. “God forbid.” Another sip. Still bitter. Still terrible. “I’m not on a food tour, don’t worry. I live nearby. And I'm just… sampling my options for insomnia and regrettable decisions. This place has good lighting and terrible pie. You wouldn’t believe how rare that combo is.”

Her pen tapped once against the side of her sketchbook before she tilted her head at Valentina, gaze sharp but not unkind. “But you obviously know your way around. How did you find this gem of a place?"

"As for Paris…" she drawled, turning slightly to face him now, one shoulder leaned lazily against the wall, "if you’re talking about Galerie Lelong, then sure. But if you're trying to convince me that pop-up in Montmartre where we nearly got mugged was a real gallery, I’m calling bullshit"

His defense of mystery got a soft snort out of her, more amused than dismissive. "You say mystery like it’s seductive. But it just makes me assume you're hiding bodies in the garden. And not even interesting bodies. Just like…tax accountants or something."

She followed his gaze to the piece in front of them and crossed her arms loosely, her expression shifting slightly—less guarded now. "It came in three weeks ago from a collector in Milan. Belonged to her mother before she passed." A beat. "She's convinced it's a Benedetto Pistrucci, and even swears he etched his name in the back. Looks like a bunch of scratches to me."