#closedstarter

He bends just a bit, to try and peer through the crack in the door before just shoving his way in. Maybe Arjun and Nass are... close, but he still likes to give privacy. Even if he's been round enough times that he probably has a jacket or shirt hanging out in Nasser's home somewhere...

"Nass, your door is cracked. Better not be waltzing around naked in here.. Might end up giving someone a bit of a show." Arjun pushes the door gently so he can walk in. The tall bodyguard is still in his all-blacks - dark leather jacket over a black sweater and slacks. Sleek and fashionable, but comfortable for his job. The usual clothing he wears, unless he needs to be in the tux.

He closes the door behind him. "If you haven't taken a shower yet, I'm due for one..." Arjun teases, already toeing off his shoes.

It's taken Sol a bit of wrestling with himself before he arrives at the hospital and checks the floors for the right room.

He's kept his distance after the fiasco at the Halloween party. The chair that came flying at him, the negativity and insults... it had put a terrible taste in his mouth. He knew that Azazel was going through something, but if the roles had been reversed, Sol would've never been spoken to again.

Suffice to say, he hasn't been in a rush to reconnect. But of course he's been worried. Azazel had been acting off and Sol's already suspected vampirism is afoot... he's just not 100% sure, and he can't exactly reveal himself in the process.

He wraps his fingers on the door as he finds the right number and stands in the doorway. "...Can I come in?" Sol's not sure if Az wants to see him, anyways.

Sol probably looks like a thief. He's got a pair of large metal-grade clippers in his hands, gloves on, and he's standing outside of an abandoned store-front with his sunglasses on.

"Can you hold this still?" Sol nods to Matevos nearby, and then back to the chain that holds the old door shut. "Believe it or not, I own this building. Lost the key." He hits the padlock that dangles in irritation.

They've seen Hyorin walk through those library doors time and time again. Not every reader in Oz's place of work is someone he talks to - it would be impossible to become friends, or even acquaintances, with everyone. But there's standouts. The people who leave an impression.

Oz had spoken with Hyorin, brought her books on folklore, vampires... it had piqued their interest. Made Oz wonder why someone in Vegas was looking into vampires. What had brought it on, exactly?

Being a creature of the darkness and knowing how taboo it is to speak about it... Oz has their eyes peeled every time she comes in. Today is no exception. "Hey." A cursory nod, with a small smile. "How's your day going?" Not a question Oz normally asks, but they figure that they know each other well enough, right?

There's something poetic about winding through a sea of people in a dark room. Maybe because it feels serpentine, natural in a way that blood and bone is natural.

The snake in the garden - Sol always resonates with the wild animals rather than the heroes who slay them. The bears and coyotes, the 'big bad wolf'. Even in a bar he's been in thousands of times, he prefers to slither so he doesn't have to stop and chat too many times.

Because anyone who knows the owner of Doll House knows that he isn't much of a talker, but more of a doer. He'd rather cock and load the gun than threaten from afar.

So, he's already at the bar counter ordering a drink after he catches sight of those big eyes he recognizes so well. Such a pretty thing. His own scotch is clutched in ringed fingers, another glass of something else sits in the other.

"Still your drink?" Sol's voice is sandy like gravel as he leans into the table where he sees Cicero sitting, and the new glass is set down for them- slid across as Sol rests on one arm, hair hanging off one shoulder. "Or did you find a new favorite?"

Maybe they'd laid it on a bit thick at the Halloween party... but could you blame them? Oz is a creature of habit, and being a centuries-old vampire means that they've discovered, quickly, that bluntness is easier than skirting the point all the time. So here Oz is, a vampire and a former hitman masquerading as a boring librarian, sitting in a somewhat private booth at the Riviera. Dressed snappy as always - dark pinstripe suit with a silky blue collared shirt beneath.

He's gotten a free drink from pretending to play a slot machine for a few minutes, though he'd like to have a few more... in good company. When he sees the man he's waiting for, Oz grins and sets his glass down, giving a little wave. "There you are... can I get you a drink?"

"Are you a 'new years resolution' kind of person?" Aviel is mixing his chocolate shake slowly with the straw, watching the whipped cream melt a bit, the reddish tint from the already-eaten cherry swirling into a haze. "My son has a long list but I can't be arsed to do it myself."

He takes another sip before holding a french fry, using it to point at Malcolm. "I mean... it's a good habit to get into. Don't listen to my old, disorganized ways."

'Please! Th-There was something... it was... not human! Back there, this woman was...'

There's not a lot of quiet spots in Vegas to sit and think. Everything is lights, and shouting and laughing and screaming. Cyrus loves it, truly- the absolute rush of a good party, of a cute face in the crowd and meeting someone's eye. Drinks, making out, falling into an old mattress and breaking the boxspring. All while Vegas keeps glimmering from the window.

Those neon lights are as good as stars, anyways. At least to him.

But the cemetery is quiet. He can sit on the raised ground around the long-sealed mausoleum and smoke a cigarette.

And he would've been so content to do that and relax, but he sees what might as well be a ghost. And maybe she is. But she's the one. He's sure- the woman in the woods. He can remember the way the branches broke under his feet as he scrambled, dragged himself, ran to the nearest roadway.

"...You the Ghost of Queer-Ass Future or somethin'?" Cyrus asks, and it takes everything in him to keep his voice from shaking. "You better not be followin' me."