Maybe I’m a different breed…

Still, she can't help the wince that pulls at her face when his voice suddenly cuts through the quiet. "Keep your voice down." She hisses, finally glancing back over her shoulder. Even hushed, the irritation in her tone is clear.

"I'm not security, but I do work here. Which means I have every right to be here - unlike you." Her words are an obvious contradiction to them sneaking around in the dark, but she doesn't care to elaborate on her late night escapades. "Just concentrate on keeping up."

Finally, they reach their target.

Beck drops to a crouch beneath the window, eyes fixed on the security guard inside as she studies his movements carefully, the rise and fall of his chest. Ronald still looked asleep, thankfully, slumped in his chair beneath the dull glow of the office light.

She notices a second too late that Dorian has straightened to full height beside her with no regard for his visibility, already making his way toward the door. Beck's stomach lurches.

She's about to grab him. They were both trespassing, and if Ronald woke to the sound of them barging in, they were both screwed - but it quickly becomes apparent that intervention isn't necessary after all.

To her credit, Beck does try to suppress the amusement that flashes across her face as Dorian's hand slips uselessly through the doorknob. But the tension in his expression, combined with the increasingly frustrated way he fumbles for the handle again, eventually forces a smug smirk onto her lips.

For a moment, she lets the silence stretch deliberately between them, satisfaction written plainly across her face. Then she pushes herself upright and steps closer.

Even now, even in this situation, he's barking orders at her like she’s a dog. A thought that gets her back up. Beck's jaw tightens, a sharp breath escapes through her nose as she nears him, voice low and firm.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but here, you listen to me." Her eyes lock onto his. "If that guy wakes up, we are both fucked - I'm out of a job, you're out of your answers, we're both arrested. Got it?"

The irony of the lecture is not lost on him either. She keeps talking about getting caught while sneaking around her own workplace in the middle of the night. Whatever explanation she has for that, he doubts it would impress her employer. She seems very pleased with herself at the moment but for all her posturing, the consequences here land much harder on her than they do on him. "Besides," he continues, eyes narrowing, "if anyone should be worried about jail, it's you." The corner of his mouth pulls into something halfway between a scoff and a smirk as his gaze drifts over her. "Jail is no place for delicate little girls."

He looks back at the door. There is a reasonable chance he could simply walk through it. Maybe. He has passed through solid objects before—walls, fences, the containers in this very shipyard and more than one unfortunate pedestrian since ending up like this. He has also gotten stuck in things before, and there is no chance in hell he is giving her the satisfaction of watching that happen. So he settles for pointing a finger directly in her face instead.

"My name is Ayumu. Nakatomi Ayumu," the much older spirit replied with a knowing smile as they looked up at the other. Dorian seemed to be trying to use his height to intimidate, but Ayumu was not easily intimidated.

"Do you know that you're dead, Dorian Wells?" Ripping the bandaid off seemed like the best option and it gave Ayumu the gleeful opportunity to see how the other man might react.

Matthew leaned in to light his cigarette, blue eyes still trained on the other man's face as he pulled away. "Your actions don't quite match up with your words, Mister Wells," he said as he blew the smoke from his lungs.

At the question, his expression tightened almost imperceptibly. Several hours wasted moving through overcrowded streets and festival traffic had done little for his patience and even less for his mood. “I’m looking for someone,” he said plainly. “Someone currently in possession of something that belongs to me.” His hands lifted slightly then, gesturing vaguely toward himself—to the expensive clothes hanging off a body that wasn’t entirely there, to the noticeable transparency below his knees, to the entire impossible situation clinging to him like a bad joke. “And I intend to get it back.”

for: anyone and everyone~ @vievecorcitystarters location: the sidewalk outside liber (klin)

While there were no official Vibe Fest parties in Klin, it did not stop various bars and clubs from throwing many of their own to take advantage of the revelry. Matthew hated Vibe Fest just as he hated most forms of merriment, but the hate was especially strong that evening.

He had stupidly chosen this weekend to come by Liber again after being a recluse at home for so long and he was starting to think that it was a terrible idea. It did not help that he was still depowered and opening himself a portal to go home was not an option.

Liber was very lively, which was always a good thing, but Matthew still felt the need to step out for a moment. He exited his wine bar and walked a bit of the ways down before pulling out his sleek silver cigarette case to fish one out to place between his lips. He would normally have lit it magically with a flick of his fingers, but alas... The fallen deity growled in annoyance and flagged down a passing person to ask (rather menacingly)...

"Do you have a light?"

No trace. No lead. No sign of the bastard walking around with his face.

At this point, being stopped by strangers every few minutes had become less an inconvenience and more a certainty. Most either wanted directions, drugs, or to tell him his lack of visible feet was a 'really sick effect, man'. Dorian had stopped correcting them after the fourth time.

“Do I look like a convenience store to you?” he replied automatically, the words dry as ash before his attention settled properly on the man speaking to him.

The animal spirit's eyes flashed in the darkness, giving Ayumu's silhouette an other-worldly look against the shadows of the alleyway and the corners of their lips spread mischievously even if the other could not see it in the dark.

“My name is Dorian Wells.” The words ground out of him like gravel as he advanced swiftly—no feet to slow him down. If there was any merit to this clown's bluster, that name should mean something to them.

Her attention snaps back as he launches into another tirade, a disbelieving laugh slipping out before she can stop it. "I don't know who you think you are, or where exactly you've come from, but I think a bit of respect should be higher on your priority list to learn than manners." The words come out through gritted teeth, irritation no longer disguised.

Yet, she takes a brief moment of pause to consider him. As aggravating as he was, he didn't seem drunk, as he'd stated before. She knew as well as anyone that stranger things can happen in this city than someone with a matching face making a disappearing act. Her jaw shifts slightly as she studies him, something more thoughtful creeping in beneath the annoyance.

Beck watches with interest as his hand threads through his torso as if passing through air, her gaze tracking the movement before lifting to meet his. This guy was an asshole of the highest order. But he was also completely out of his depth. A quiet breath escapes her, before she briskly turns.

"Follow me." Beck doesn't wait to see if he listens, turning and heading down the dimmer stretch of boardwalk, boots thudding softly against worn wood. The path is instinctive to her - turns and narrow walkways taken without thinking. Every few seconds she glances back, ensuring no one else was spotting them as they made their way through the shipyard.

"Despite all his coffee, Ronald is actually useless by this hour. Perhaps we can see who's right about this whole being alone on the dock thing." The words come out as barely above a whisper, only glancing briefly back to Dorian before she turns the last corner that gets them to the rickety building marked security.

Beck ducks, half crawling along the edge of the building's wall, until she's directly beneath the lip of the window sill. Only then does she rise, just enough to peer through the dirty glass. Ronald is exactly where he always is - slumped in a chair, head dipping forward and jerking back as he fights against sleep, and loses. There's a faint crackle of a radio that hums at his hip, but no other sign of anyone else inside.

Beck smiles faintly at the familiar sight, then tilts her head to indicate the door just beyond Ronald's outline. "The CCTV is just through there." The words are a whisper, glancing over to Dorian again. "Let's see if this mystery man of yours exists, shall we?"

Keeping pace proves harder than expected. She moves through the shipyard with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of it, cutting between narrow walkways and sharp turns without slowing once. Dorian catches more than one rusted corner straight through the torso in his effort not to lose sight of her, his body phasing through metal instead of colliding with it. The sensation is wrong every single time, cold and hollow in a way he cannot describe, but it at least spares him from falling behind.

“And what exactly are you doing here?” he asks after the third turn, his voice carrying far louder than her cautious near-whisper. “You’re clearly not security.”

By the time they reach the small building, Dorian’s patience for skulking around has nearly worn out. He only ducks slightly beside her near the window, more to see inside than out of any concern for being spotted. His attention settles on the guard slumped in the chair, then shifts immediately toward the door she indicates.

“Finally,” he says, straightening without hesitation and heading for the entrance outright, seeing no reason whatsoever not to walk directly inside. There's rarely been a time in his life when throwing his weight around did not get him what he wanted.

His hand closes around the door handle—and passes straight through it. Dorian stops, irritation flashing sharply across his features before immediately trying again to yank it open. His fingers slip uselessly through cold metal a second time.

A tense silence follows.

Then he turns toward her with visible displeasure already settling back into place. “Open the door.”

"Maybe you left your common sense somewhere with the forklift, too." She shoots back with an edged voice. "Along with your manners." She knows he's not entirely wrong with his assessment. That only makes it worse. There's no chance she'd give him the satisfaction of admitting to it, though - her response only a sharp eye roll instead.

When his attention drifts from her, something in her expression tightens. "I told you. There's no one else here but you and me." Her frown deepens, though a flicker of something almost amused tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Unless you count Ronald over at the security booth there. Seventy, smells like he's been marinating in instant coffee for a decade." A fake, dramatic gasp. "The two of you could be twins."

The smirk fades as quickly as it came. She exhales through her nose, reining herself in, forcing her words to be softer. Clearly this guy was going through a crisis, even if he was irritating. "There was no one else here."

As Dorian turns to leave, Beck watches him go, tension slacking from her shoulders. Not her problem anymore. She's already half turned back to the container when his voice breaks the quiet once more. Beck stills for a beat, before pivoting to meet him - slack jaw disbelief on her face.

"Excuse me?" She snaps, taking a few quick steps toward him, arms folded tight over her chest. "I'm not threatening you. I'm trying to help you - if you'd actually listen to me over the noise of your own ego. At least I'm old enough to know when to shut up."

Her next words earned her no more than a short, disbelieving scoff. “Help?” he echoed, flat and dismissive. “You’ve done nothing but waste my time.” His gaze swept over her again, slower now that she’d closed the distance, reassessing. She looked older than he’d first thought. Not unattractive—but not his type. Too rough around the edges, not enough refinement. He preferred people who were already someone. “And if anyone here is lacking manners,” he added, irritation sharpening, “it’s not me. You might want to reconsider how you’re speaking to me before I forget myself.”

He exhaled through his nose, tension coiling tighter rather than easing, gaze flicking past her again toward the containers like he could force the answer out of them if he looked long enough. “There was someone else here,” he said, more firmly now, frustration threading through every word. “He didn’t just vanish.” His hands flexed at his sides, the motion abrupt, controlled only by habit. “So unless you suddenly remember something useful, the only way you’re helping me is by staying out of my way."

“Because whatever you think I should be worried about,” he added, quieter but edged, “it can’t be worse than—” He cut himself off. His hand had come up mid-gesture—and didn’t stop. For a second, it passed straight through his own torso, phasing clean through like there was nothing there at all. Dorian froze. A vein stood out at his temple as he jerked his hand back on instinct, staring at it like it had betrayed him before his gaze snapped back to her, composure strained thin enough to show the cracks. “—this.”

There was something to be said about whiskey drinkers. They knew what they liked and settled for nothing less. It was the confidence in his every move that intrigued Isabelle more than any of the other patrons in the bar. Taking her drink in one hand, she waggled her fingers at the finance bro, elated to finally be rid of the man who wouldn't take no as an answer. Perhaps she would give his name to Teddy for one of the younger vampires to feast upon. She never indulged in junk food.

She took his hand in hers, allowing Dorian to lead her away. "Do I get to know where you are taking me?" Isabelle's curiosity was piqued more than anything. If there were any true danger, the ancient could easily handle herself. But this was an offer far too tempting to allow common sense to hamper.

Only then did he stop, turning back to her properly, his attention settling in full. Up close, his earlier assessment held—everything about her was deliberate. Expensive. Not loud or flashy, but built to be noticed anyway. The kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention and got it regardless. It held his interest in a way most things did not.

“Depends how interesting you want the night to be.” His gaze held hers, steady and openly assessing. “We can stay here, have a drink,” he continued smoothly, “or, if you’re expecting something more, I can arrange that too.” He gave a slight tilt of his head, considering her without hesitation. “There’s a helipad not far from here. Clear night, right altitude—you get a better view than anything this place can offer.”

It wasn’t pitched as an attempt to impress her so much as a baseline, something he was used to offering. “But we can start simple,” he added, quieter now, more direct. His thumb brushed once, absently, across the back of her hand before stilling again. “Dorian Wells." He let the name sit, like it should already mean something. "Do I keep calling you sweetheart, or are you going to give me something better?”

for: @dorianwells location: a back alley near ware

Ayumu was on one of their nightly walks, a habit that they made time for more often than not whenever they were in the Shipyard. It was a way of patrolling their territory to Ayumu's subconscious animal mind, but to others they were simply a person out on an evening stroll.

They were making their way back to Ware and walking past an alleyway they always walked past when they spied movement in said back alley. It looked vaguely suspicious and Ayumu decided to investigate.

The ancient animal spirit turned and made their way into the dark alley, the pupils of their eyes turning into slits to see better in the dark. What, or who, they saw was a tall figure milling at the end of the alley.

"Could I trouble you to make yourself scarce?" Ayumu called out, looking relaxed as they regarded the stranger in the shadows. "This alleyway will not make for a good place to sleep. Hobos aren't a good look for my businesses."

“I am not a hobo,” he ground out, low and tight, like forcing it might make it hold. It didn’t. The words come out warped, barely recognizable. “Do you have any idea who you're talking?” The sentence fractured halfway through, pitch bending in ways it shouldn’t. The muscles in his neck pulled taut with the effort, his frustration plain now, immediate and ugly.

Slowly, she makes her way out of her hiding place, arms folded and a faint scowl settling into place.

"Most people want to steal what's inside the container, actu-" The words falter. Something isn't right here. Beck's gaze sharpens, fixing on him properly now. There's a strange softness to the edges of him, like he's not quite holding his shape. The light catches on him wrong, slipping through in places it shouldn't. For a second, she can't make sense of it. Then it clicks, her expression stilling.

"The only person I've seen with your face is... uh, you." Her mind catches up to the question, the words coming out bluntly.

Beck watches in slack mouthed disbelief as Dorian reaches up to rub his face, the shifting of the particles of his finger tips as they make contact. Or, don't make contact. Her experience with spirits had been limited at best, but all the ones she'd encountered before had seemed controlled, steady. This wasn't that.

"I was going to suggest you may be high, actually." Beck points out with awkward humor, though she manages to make her voice a little softer than before. "But I'm thinking that may not be your only problem." There's a pause, Beck taking a breath to reign in the instinctive bite of sarcastic follow up at his tone, studying him instead.

"I've only seen you."

Beck shifts her weight, taking a few cautious steps closer, eyes tracing his outline. Whatever has happened here, he doesn't seem like he knows, either. A fact which makes the wolf feel uneasy.

"You should be careful who you go around telling that particular story to, by the way, not everyone will react well to... whatever this is." She glances briefly over her shoulder, ensuring the dock still lay empty behind them.

Her attempt at humor earns her little more than a tight, unimpressed look. There’s a flicker of irritation there because yes, obviously this isn’t his only problem, and he doesn’t appreciate having it pointed out. He exhales through his nose, gaze already sliding past her as if she’s become incidental—because she has—attention drifting back to the rows of containers in search of his doppelgänger. “That’s not possible,” he mutters, more to himself than to her, though the volume carries, jaw tensing with barely concealed frustration. “He was right here.”

It’s her warning that draws him back in. He stills mid-step and abruptly turns back to her with a look that borders on incredulous. “Are you threatening me?” His gaze drags over her properly this time, assessing her in the dim light. “What are you, thirteen? Fifteen?” he adds, tone slipping into something faintly patronizing. “Are your parents around here somewhere? Should you be out this late at night?”

Who: Open @vievecorcitystarters

The air had cooled with the dying light, dusk bleeding slowly over the shipyard. One by one, the noises of the day thinned - boots on wood, distant engines, low conversation - until it all slipped into silence, leaving only the quiet lap of water against the docks in its wake.

Beck, however, lingered.

She offered the occasional nod, a half-hearted goodbye, but didn’t follow the others out. Said she wanted a minute. Said she liked the sea at night. No one questioned it.

But her attention had never left the container. One that had come in earlier - wrong from the moment it hit the dock. The casing was off. Reinforced. Sealed too tightly. And beneath it all, buried under metal and salt, there’d been a scent. Something… wrong.

She’d tried to ignore it. Told herself getting involved in other people’s business was how things spiralled. But what was the point of senses like hers if she turned her back on them? Besides, the key had been easy enough to snag from her boss - and she’d have it returned to its rightful place before the sun rose again tomorrow. No one had to know.

So, once dark had properly set in and the shipyard was eerily quiet, Beck took off toward the container in question. She maneuvered the rickety boardwalks like a second home, the scent growing stronger as she neared the dark metal door… her hand hovered over the lock, thinking about what she was about to do.

And then, she sensed it, the presence of another close by.

He shifts his weight, irritation surfacing in the set of his shoulders, in the tightness of his mouth. “He walked out of this place called Absynthia in my body, which I’m aware sounds absurd, so do spare me that particular reaction.” His hand drags briefly over his face, more habit than necessity, and there’s a flicker where his fingers lose cohesion before snapping back into place. “And before you ask, no, I’m not drunk, delirious, or whatever else you’re about to suggest.” He is starving, though—has been for hours now—and the fact that he can’t seem to keep hold of anything long enough to eat it is rapidly becoming a problem. His expression tightens, impatience slipping through the polish. “So if you’ve seen him, now would be an excellent time to say so.”

He was an utter bore. Isabelle had not the slightest notion as to what about her closed off demeanor said that she wished to speak rather than enjoy the martini, but the man assumed the empty seat to her left was an open invitation to join her. Perhaps he was a former patient of hers, long forgotten in some file that gathered dust in storage. He certainly apparently believed himself welcome to take certain liberties with the vampire elder. It was such a shame that she promised Matthew to be on her best behavior, but if he touched her leg one more time, Isabelle would be finding a way around that promise.

When the seat to her right was taken, she smiled sweetly, cutting the bore off. He had not stopped talking about himself all evening. She had the chance to pawn him off on the other person or they could bolster their own ego by playing the hero. "I do apologize, darling. He was keeping me company while waiting for you. I hope that I didn't miss you at a different part of the bar. I am so pleased that you've found me at last."

“Whiskey. Neat,” he said to the bartender before his attention drifted back to the man still lingering like an unwelcome afterthought. Dorian’s expression didn’t change, but something in it cooled—possession settling in where charm had been. His arm slid along the back of her chair, not quite touching her, but close enough to imply familiarity. Close enough to stake his claim. “I think,” he said lightly, though his gaze never left the other man, “you’ve monopolized her quite enough.”