#dragonkcn

She sits in the booth at the quaint wine bar, champagne flute already imprinted with a blush pink lipstick imprint as she awaits the arrival of her companion. She's reading a manga to while the time away, flicking pages across every few seconds, occasionally pausing to reach for her drink and take a sip from her drink or peer closer at an illustration. The arrival of another at her booth pulls her gaze from the book in her hands and she smiles at Syra, although it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She looks for the waiter who had taken her order and raises her hand to click he fingers and gesture for them to come over, before looking back to her companion. "Good to see you, how are you doing?"

@dragonkcn

` She sat poised at a white-linen table in Maison du Soleil, a temple of excess disguised as a restaurant, where the air smelled like truffle oil and elitism, and the champagne flowed freely before noon. Everything here was pristine—polished silverware, carefully curated floral arrangements, patrons dressed in a way that suggested wealth without the vulgarity of logos. It was a place where indulgence wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected. And Gabs, of course, looked the part. Mostly. Draped in an effortlessly chic black number—vintage Chanel, obviously—she was all sharp elegance and well-practiced ease. But lately, perfection took more effort. The soft glow on her skin wasn’t just from high-end products anymore; it was a calculated mask, layers of expertly blended foundation working overtime to conceal the slight pallor that had lingered since her resurrection. A touch more blush than usual, a little extra highlight to mimic warmth—it was a delicate balance, one she maintained with ruthless precision. Her hair was pinned into a sleek updo, not a strand out of place, and her manicured fingers—painted a muted but undeniably expensive shade of plum—curled around the stem of a champagne flute. She sipped from her glass of champagne languidly (because, really, orange juice was so pedestrian), critiquing the crowd in her mind, but the moment Syrah approached, her cool façade cracked into something real. With a dramatic sigh, she pushed a waiting flute toward her friend. “Thank God. I was about to start eavesdropping, and you know how tragic that gets.” A pause for a moment before, begrudgingly: “I actually had fun last night.” She rolled her eyes. “I know. I was ready for the usual ordeal—smug, overconfident, insufferable. But instead?” She gestured, exasperated. “He was… nice. And worse? Interesting.” With a sigh, she leaned back, narrowing her eyes. “So. Full debrief now, or shall we order first? Because I need something decadent to make up for the emotional whiplash.”