#sinners.starter

The low hum of engines and the sharp hiss of an air compressor filled the air, a rough kind of music Hero had long since learned to move in rhythm with. Grease-streaked hands, sweat at his temple, cigarette balanced on his lip—it was just another late night at Phantom Wrench. He’d been at it since dawn, patching up a busted clutch, tuning a couple bikes for the boys upstairs, and trying real damn hard not to think too much. The car meet had gone sideways—figures. Every time things looked calm, the Veil had a way of slithering in and proving him wrong. The shop lights flickered once, the sound of a bike revving outside cutting through the Bronx night. “Shop’s open,” he called, voice carrying that easy drawl. “You here for a fix… or just to make trouble?”

If there was one thing Alexie Bhod knew how to do, it was command a room—and The Penthaus was built for exactly that kind of man. The city outside might’ve been crawling with fear and whispers of the Veil, but inside these walls, decadence was still a religion. Golden light poured over marble and glass, the bass thrumming deep enough to feel in your chest, and the scent of expensive perfume clung to the air like sin. He leaned against the bar, a picture of unbothered luxury—black slacks, open collar, no tie, wristwatch worth more than most rent checks. A half-smirk played at his lips as he stirred the amber in his glass. Top shelf, naturally. Anything less was an insult.

“Keep it open,” he told the bartender, voice low and smooth, laced with that unhurried charm that made everything sound like a promise.

For once, he wasn’t here to negotiate, manipulate, or clean up someone else’s mess. Just a night to breathe, to watch the city’s sinners pretend the world wasn’t burning outside. His gaze swept the club lazily—the DJ, the crowd, the sharp glint of strangers’ eyes. There was always something—or someone—worth his attention.

“Hell of a night to be alive,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. But the look in his eyes said it plain: if trouble walked through that door, he’d welcome it with a drink and a smile.

location: city hall mayor's office

Jessie was reading the paper, his eyebrows furrowed. He did have another committment that day, but to read about the car crash was heart breaking. His lips was in a fine line. "Can recon confirm this information." He wrote to his security team. There was a small hope that maybe this was exaggerated.

"Mayor Kye, someone wants to see you." He heard. "Jessie remarked. "Let them in." He did have open hours for this very reason. He adjusted his glasses as he continued typing his memos for the day.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you shortly." He remarked.

The roar of tuned engines and the bass-heavy thrum of speakers rattled through the closed-off stretch of street, every gleaming hood and tricked-out ride on display like a peacock fanning its feathers. She walked slow, weaving past groups clustered around their cars, the smell of fuel and rubber thick in the late-night air.

Her sunglasses caught the neon glow of undercarriage lights as she tipped her chin at a Mustang revving hard enough to make the asphalt hum beneath her boots. “Can’t believe the city cleared this already,” she muttered under her breath, half amusement, half irritation. There were a hundred ways this whole thing can go sideways—and that’s without the Veil stirrin’ the pot. and she had a feeling there was no chance of that not happening.

She lingered near a line of imports ready to race, hands in her pockets, eyes sharp behind the lenses. To anyone else she looked like she was just killing time, checking out the chrome and paint jobs. But every fiber of her was coiled, alert, waiting. If something went down here tonight—and her gut told her it would—she planned on being in the middle of it.

The Grove was always a spot to go and enjoy a few minutes of fresh air during the middle of his day. Maybe he'd stop and grab a book on his way back to the office, but he wanted to enjoy the garden for a few minutes. "The flowers came in nice, didn't they?"

Late nights at the bodega could be fun, but most of the time they were boring. The cat was out on a nightly prowl, and Sloane was left alone to watch the small tv behind the counter. She wanted a cigarette, but every time she tried to step out from behind the counter someone else walked in. The bell on the door got her attention and she turned to look at who had entered as a cop car went speeding past and stopped at the next block. "Any idea what that's about?"

Sauntering into Blossom, where the air was perfumed with a riot of flowers that nearly drowned out the weight of her phone buzzing with the Don’s latest guilt-trip texts. Yes, she’d been expertly ducking them.

“Here to rest my tired self on your petals, not solve the world’s problems,” she announced with a lazy grin, pushing past a cascade of hydrangeas spilling out the window. The florist nodded at her, all quiet charm amid the riot of blooms. She pretended to take it all in—roses tucked in copper vases, lilies swaying like they had music in their heads—even let her fingers ghost over a soft, pink peony. Light, easy, like she’d been gone too long from simpler pleasures.

“Coffee or bourbon later?” she murmured to herself, half-joking, her shoes still kicking dusty petals off the sidewalk.