#moblandstarters

The music hit just right tonight. Something slow, rich, dripping with brass and smoke. The kind of sound that curled through the air like a promise—half-sin, half-sacrament. From his perch near the end of the bar, Zion Walker let it wash over him, one arm slung across the back of the leather booth like he owned the whole damn world. Technically, he just managed this corner of it. But The Dunbar pulsed with the kind of life that made a man feel bigger than he was.

Central Avenue glittered outside, but in here, the real stars were on the floor. A velvet haze hung over everything: cigarette trails, perfume, sweat, ambition. Couples twirled under the golden light. Men in tailored suits shook hands over deals worth dying for. A woman laughed like she meant it. Somewhere behind it all, the underground poker room murmured with tension.

Zion sipped something dark and neat from a cut-glass tumbler, ring tapping lightly against the side. “A little slow for a Saturday,” he commented, smug facetiousness oozing with each word. He wore a suit tonight—sharkskin gray, crisp shirt open at the collar, no tie. Decadent. Intentional. He dressed like a man with nowhere to be but everywhere to rule. His smile was lazy. His eyes were not.

It was a good night. Which meant he didn’t trust it one bit. His gaze swept the room again. Familiar faces. New ones, too. Some trying not to look his way. Some looking too hard. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he lit a cigarette, exhaled a slow curl of smoke, a smirk unfurling as he did so, he turned to the person closest to him "If tonight gets any prettier, I might just fall in love."

distracted for a moment, she dug into her pocket, looking to see how much cash she had on her. enough for a loaf or two, she hoped. she started to walk over to the bakery stall, admittedly not looking where she was going before she set off. the body that crashed into her managed to hit her directly in the stomach, which got a pained groan out of her. "jeez." she couldn't exactly cuss them out about not looking where they were going because she hadn't been looking where she was going. so, instead, she made a joke out of it. "you pack a real punch, anyone ever told you that?"

Location: the hills

As Los Angeles stretched out below in all its glory, Maurizio found himself at a secluded overlook on the Hollywood Hills, bearing his own reasons for being awake before the city. The air was still crisp, carrying the faint scent of earthy woods and distant sea salt, enveloping his every sense, as he inhaled profoundly; piercing blues reflected the deep indigo shade of the very sky above, which now slowly faded into soft rose and golden hues. He'd just finished a rigorous run, his built frame moving with an almost unnatural grace, not a bead of sweat seemingly out of place, while he went about his daily routine.

The bodyguard stopped at the very edge of the clearing, facing the rising sun, allowing himself to just be present in the moment and admire the beauty of nature itself. His dark, impeccably tailored jogging attire did little to hide the toned musculature beneath, or the faint, intricate patterns of tattoos peeking from under his sleeves and collar – tiny hints of a deeper story he was adamant to leave where it belonged — buried deep within the indefinite abyss of his past. He turned slightly, catching the nascent light, his eyes unmistakably exuding an enigmatic aura, a quiet power that was both intriguing and subtly intimidating without trying. Clearly enjoying this solitary moment of peace and quiet, his breathing evened out slowly, his focus unmarred; yet there was an underlying alertness ever present and stirring within upon realizing, he wasn't as alone as he might have thought. His gaze briefly swept over the panoramic view of the dormant city, before it settled on the approaching figure. With no surprise in his oceanic blues, no immediate reaction beyond a calm, almost analytical observation, he gave a small, acknowledging nod and offered a short: "Good Morning". - for his manner's sake; not because he was particularly in the mood for a little chit chat.

Location: The Dunbar

Malik leaned back in the plush leather booth at Dunbar, a family owned pub, which, —although he may have been a little biased —was indeed his favorite place to go, whenever he was in the rare mood for a night out. The dim lighting cast a warm glow across the rustic wooden bar, where familiar faces busily poured drinks and swapped stories during the usual evening hustle. As head of the Walker syndicate, Malik was used to commanding attention and respect; yet here, in this homely establishment, filled with laughter and music, he encountered a brief moment of solace. One, that wouldn’t quite last for much longer than a heartbeat but still; he’d take what he could get. Chief Walker savored this moment, his calloused fingers firmly holding onto the glencairn glass of amber liquor, appreciating the complexity and nuances of the spirit. He took a small sip, letting it coat his tongue first, then he paused, allowing the flavors to develop —a rich bourbon with notes of caramel— and relished its soothing warmth, as it settled comfortably within him. It was moments like these, that reminded him, why he worked so diligently: to protect what mattered most—his family. He’d failed them once, he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

The gentle clinking of glasses drew his gaze to a figure seated next to him. Their eyes met briefly, his gaze intense but not threatening, as Malik eventually broke the silence between them with an easy question, projected more for hospitality than necessity: “What’s your poison tonight?”—It wasn't often one received such attentiveness from someone usually buried under responsibilities higher than most could fathom, but sometimes… wonders did happen and Malik never ceased to surprise even himself.

The diner was half-empty, washed in the low hum of neon and the crackle of a jukebox that had seen better years. Eoin sat in the corner booth, shoulders squared like he was bracing against an invisible punch. He’d cleaned himself up well enough—blood gone, shirt tucked—but the dark bloom of a bruise along his jaw and the stiffness in his ribs made it clear where his evening had been spent.

He nursed a mug of black coffee like it might anchor him, eyes fixed on the thin curl of steam. Cigarette smoke drifted over from the counter, and the quiet clatter of cutlery filled the gaps between the jukebox’s static croon. It should’ve been peaceful. Instead, every muscle in him still thrummed with the leftover charge of the fight, the kind that didn’t settle easy.

He wasn’t looking to talk. Not to anyone. The fight still sang in his bones, a restless energy that had nowhere to go but into silence.

Then, movement caught his eye. Someone slid out of a nearby booth, and something small hit the linoleum with a dull slap. Eoin’s gaze followed it: a wallet, leather worn at the corners.

For a moment he considered keeping quiet. Let someone else notice. But old habits, the ones drilled in too deep to shake, the good little catholic boy still hidden deep inside, had him leaning down and scooping it up before he could think twice. He cleared his throat, voice rough from disuse and smoke, carrying just enough to catch their attention.

“Think you dropped this.”

It didn’t matter how many gowns Rosa Alvarez owned, how her star rose or fell, or how many fellow wives of means tried to tell her to let someone else “handle it.”

This part? No one else ever handled it.

The heat inside Grand Central Market was its own kind of perfume—chili oil and roasted pork, fresh cilantro and ripe mango, something frying three stalls over, and the clatter of knives hitting cutting boards like percussion. The whole place buzzed, a tangle of languages and hands and hunger. Rosa moved through it with a kind of ease that could never be faked—basket on her arm, heels traded for flats, lipstick still perfect because of course it was.

She was bartering in Spanish with a produce vendor over the price of guajillos, but her mind was already on the rest of the list. She needed plantains firm enough to fry, culantro—not cilantro, culantro, por el amor de Dios—and a very particular cut of pork shoulder that only old Man Torres ever got just right. She’d promised her mother’s pastelón recipe for dinner this week, and she wasn’t about to half-ass it, not even for a private meal at home.

"Dos puñados, pero bien secos—sí, así, gracias, corazón." She gave the vendor a smile that could’ve knocked the wind out of a lesser man and moved on, the basket already starting to fill. There was something centering about this place. Among the chatter and the chaos, she didn’t have to be anything except her father's daughter. Her mother's daughter. A woman raised in a kitchen that never went quiet, in a home where food was affection, and the right sofrito could fix almost anything.

She reached for a bunch of culantro just as someone else’s hand did the same, and her fingers brushed theirs. Rosa looked up, one brow arched, a spark already in her smile. “Careful. I will fight you for this.”

"i'm still pissed about losing y'know? that horse had good odds." stevie nursed a drink at the bar, the look on her face betraying her words slightly. she wasn't actually all that pissed off considering she'd only bet fifty dollars. it could be worse. she could be a riley. that thought was definitely amusing to her.

the music hummed softly, a background lull while there weren't any performances on. it was too early for that at the moment anyway. taking advantage of quiet moments in club eden was a rarity, and stevie enjoyed that on occasion. "maybe i should stick to betting on what i know. easier to judge bare knuckle fights than horses anyway, right?"

Zara wove through the haze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, tray balanced effortlessly on her hand. She stopped at the table with a warm smile, setting down a fresh drink in front of the patron.

“Compliments of the blonde at the bar,” she said lightly, tilting her head in the sender’s direction. Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Now—if you’ve got nothing better to do tonight, feel free to thank them. But I should warn you…” She leaned in just a fraction closer. “Smile too long, and you’ll know more about his childhood than his own mother. Last week he told me the story of his first pet turtle—three times. Same turtle, same ending.”

She straightened again with a little shrug, the grin tugging at her mouth betraying her amusement. “Your call. Drink’s paid for either way.”