MAN, MONSTER.

By the time he spots him, there’s condensation dripping down his glass. Sol’s managed to pace himself, only half gone. There’s a neat little pile next to him, a skinny wallet and then a watch stacked on top. Neither are his. If this were a real mark, or a real job, then he’d have been either in a pawn shop or back at the doorstep of whoever wanted another man’s watch in the first place. But it’s not a real job. So fake that Sol had decided to have a little fun with it. It’s not like Sophos was a name hidden and out of sight, a faceless mystery wandering around the dark. Not for Sol, anyway. It wasn’t too bad of a job either, but that could come down to Sol being able to pickpocket in his sleep by now, for as long as he’s been doing it.

Eventually though, Sophos sees him, and then Sol sees him right back. Presses the flat of his palm over his spoils and pulls them along for the journey halfway down the bar. “I don’t need much of anything, but if you’re willing to let your money walk free then who am I to turn it away?” it’s real leather as far as he can figure, he bets he can get a good resale price on it. The watch, too. Instead of nudging them back to their owner he folds them into a pocket of his jacket.

“Let’s say?” the idea that it had been anything but that is a little funny in the moment, Sol even lets a laugh slip out. It’s mostly sarcastic, but that’s all the noise has room for.

“Where its going? I don’t know. I don’t drive your mind around.” He hooks a nearby stool with an ankle, gives himself enough room to slide onto. “I guess work.” that’s what Sol’s been hoping after, work. Sophos seems to have connections to the kind of big name jobs Sol’s after. The kind that pay a little more. Sol’s not so sophisticated, but he has drummed up a reputation for himself. Even if it is garish, lacking subtlety. Not everything needs to be subtle, though.

“Or an excuse for murder, but that seems a little short-sighted to even me.” he lifts a finger toward the bartender, looking for another drink to occupy himself with. Business talk is as boring as near anything, Sol’s always preferred the actual work of it.

the rivulets of smoked thoughts penetrate the mind with ease, trained. there are thousands of those floating around, in his wake, in his sleep. he entertains the noise now to remain in his own headspace, the crowd surrounding him a distraction that litters. he’d rather be focused at the moment, fixating everything on the man that would otherwise not be worth his time. sol is another preface to intrigue, that much is true, and he’s willing to see where this is going for now. ennui does things to men, monsters, after all. sol does come off as another asset in this quiet war, the silence engulfing them requiring those who can work in the depth of the dark.

“that’s true,” he hums, shrugging. “i’m accustomed to that… letting my money walk free, i mean.” he chuckles slightly when he sees the thief take the rewards, albeit minuscule, but the gesture dies down when sol laughs. there’s something unorthodox about the way sol carries himself, which piques sophos even further. that much, he knows, so he’s willing to cooperate with the response otherwise taken as offensive to him. he can feel the eyes of his men at him, waiting for the command to move, seize, kill. but there’s nothing. he has his eyes on sol, still, underlined with amusement.

this is how he measures people: assets, ounce per ounce, their flesh and blood nothing more than a pint of salt. simple metaphors that value them the way they should have been. there’s nothing more to it, never more to it. commodities, but they are moving, breathing. at some parts, more effective. at some others, more defective. their so-called free will makes it a hassle at times, but the dynamic factors never cease to pique him. there’s something about this pervasive loneliness that persists, as he’s admitted to himself, but there’s nothing like being unable to connect with humankind when he’s a god, and beyond. mortals are not bestowed with what he has, fortune favouring the divine. he might call this grandiose a sense of narcissism, whatever. it doesn’t alter anything; he is a god among common men.

and she is another pawn in his chessboard, placed there to tether the order that he has in order to win.

this is no quantum physics. the world consists of simplicities that make up the larger pictures, so he uses goeun as another piece in the puzzle. however, there are some aspects that redirect his focus back to her every time, the annoyance a magnet. not that he’d admit it ever, but he likes the way she presents the lethality within. cunning in her own right, she deserves recognition among his rank, but he hasn’t been doing charity works to give it for free. still, the way she manoeuvres herself around the room proffers a sense of mirth even for him. their exchange, too.

the allegations of his surroundings are often a mixture of misperceptions, in which many would surmise his innocence while others would accuse otherwise. while it’s more common for the gladiolus sect to know of him as the triste’s very own head, there are still those remaining ignorant to the said fact, and he’d love to keep it that way for anonymity reasons. it definitely eases his way around the city, away from the prying eyes. tonight is an instance of the supposed privilege, sauntering across the alleyways as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. it’s simple in its own accord, the way he can carry himself without having to worry over his own safety, although there’s never any need for that when he’s always vigilant either way. he did not pave his way up the ladder in the sect without showing any smidgen of strength, after all, his brutal nature is renowned among the members of the organisation.

then there’s this man. bai. he knows bai finds it effortless to track him, knowing sophos well enough to retrace his steps in this city. sophos is largely volatile, but his routes can be habitual when the patterns are found. he’s hard to decipher, but not impossible, and it feels that bai has somehow known him more than he’s let bai in, which is disconcerting on its own, but it adds to the intrigue. somehow he has an inkling that bai has been treating him like someone bai used to know—there’s a tint of melancholy to it, albeit subtle, and sophos likes it. not many would treat him both as a human and a monster simultaneously, but bai manages. so, he doesn’t mind for once, coming closer to bai to reciprocate whatever sentiments are shared between them. never truly talked, but there.

this is a synagogue towards the evening: they are playing eulogies in secrecies, the captive thoughts of relinquishing mortality an idea to toy around. tied around their fingers, the filaments of innovative development that might have caught sophos’ attention, albeit remote. he might not be the most ardent audience for the concept of prolonging his lifespan, but the fact that this notion is an entertaining one, rupturing what others might be able to fathom… now that, sophos wants in. perhaps in a few decades from now, he has the world under his feet, so that might come in handy. a potential that intrigues, its blooming petals a break in the ennui that commonly rivets within. and so, this is why he’s seated across this man this fine night, the fancy dining setting a common complacency for the persona that he dons. 

the impressions that he often emanates are that of privileged man, moonflower until stated otherwise. after all, amidst many ahn’s out there, he’s one of the more prominent ones located in the heart of the said sect. and he’s not one to flagrantly wear his position as the boss of the triste unless it is vital for the other party to know that very fact. the core of his misconception lies in the façade of an innocent wealthy man, cleaved in the crux of the riches, ignorant in nature. intelligent, informed. he might as well have different skins for different occasions. ekanjeet’s presence is definitely not an exception, but he relishes in the meetings, typically. their discussions are not exactly… typical. arduous exchanges bore sophos, for sure. and then, in this scenic apostrophe, where the world revolves around none of them, he finds solace. they’re just in a discussion, their vip booth not entirely isolated. after all, to craft deceits, only the fools would reveal their intents in the first place.

there’s no reprieve for the cruel. he engraves that into the mouth of the night, his lips latching onto the third shot glass that he’s learned to familiarise himself with since long ago, too long ago. the feelings of claustrophobia that creep underneath a sign of life, weeping writhing, siphoned in the form of a common complacency. he’s subdued the sense too, the clamouring crowd with occasional glances directed his way—one, of desire, and two, of inquire—has become an amalgamation of the usual denominator. there are words hushed, rumouring the fact that the boss of the triste is dwelling within these very confines. however, despite their best or worst interests, not many actually would surmise that a pretty face harbours a pretty beast, too, underneath this very humble attire. clad in tattered jeans, alongside a secondhand black sweater with its fading humility, he barely grasps the attention of plenty beyond his face. still, he would rather blend with the rest, keeping a low profile.

the mission is afoot, with a sliver of thoughts plaguing the forefront of his mind.