#sxint

It’s a deafening silence that the nightclub inevitably succumbs to. The sound of energized spirits and nonsensical music, seemingly reverberating from the walls even in the silence. But it’s a noise only she can hear, a by-product of committing years to the establishment she called a second home. To the few souls that remained, it was nothing but pin-drop silence. A blanket of calm and safety, as her loyal workers completed the evening’s tasks - clean up, take inventory, and funnel the last of the day’s shipments to the stragglers who waited until four in the morning to collect their supply. As always, Priscilla was the last on the scene. A dedicated manager, who remained long after it was required. There’s comfort taken in being truly alone, before Fletcher inevitably arrives to secure her passage home. After propping herself up in her office, high heels and cocktail dress exchanged for her leather leggings and Levi’s t-shirt, she gets to work. Methodically rolling up wads of cash, and securing it in one of Pestilence’s many safe guards. It was a tricky balance to keep. Often, they kept their cash on hand tight. No need to attract the attention of haughty Angels, looking to earn their stripes. But the unraveling inevitably changed things. Now, more than ever, they needed strength and safety nets.

She descends from her office, coffee cup in hand and filled to the brim. An instinctive churn to her stomach, as her senses give away something awry. Nothing gave it away at first. Everything seemingly normal. And yet, Pestilence’s Virtue still pats her belt for her knives. A small comfort taken, before entering the heart of the empty nightclub. A breath of simultaneous worry, and arrogant comfort in being right, when she sees him. The youngest of the Warden’s, and perhaps the most prolific in the Nightclub. The statuesque Saint Warden, happily primed on one of the bar stools. A drink seemingly in hand. Her critical eye passes over the top shelf of the bar, noting a bottle slightly askew. He made himself comfortable, that much was certain. “Starting a little early, don’t you think?” Priscilla’s words are casual in tone, but she was not stupid enough to treat it as such. He was well within enemy territory, at a very specific time of day. One that ensured it would be just the two of them. None of Pestilence’s rank and file, circling their headquarters. Fletcher was likely still minutes away, and she doubted Saint would come by himself. A Virtue he may be, but a Warden he still was. “Haven’t seen you here as much these past few months. Are the rumors true, then? Something about a girl, your brother, and a shitty step down?”

In true Rafael Femenias Jr. fashion, the Seraphim did not recognize what he had, until he had it. In moments of arrogance, he spewed venom at the Horseman’s Truce. More bark than bite, he would detail Famine’s strength and the lost criminal activity in respect to the truce. Typically, fueled by a myriad of illicit substances and in the company of lesser men. A machismo bravado, meant to detail to all that he was as boundless as his reputation. But the truce, now teetering on the slimmest of threads, was in question. A grey area, if you will. And try as Rafael may, the reality of a war between their factions weighed heavy. His gloriously hedonistic lifestyle was comforted by the safety of his name, of his father’s name. Of the truce itself. What would be asked of him, should things continue at their pace? Rafael Senior ensured his son capable, where any self-respecting horseman would. A skilled fighter, a more-than-competent shot, and knowledge of the structures of the business. But so far, leadership had been a task he narrowly avoided. What was the need of a leader, with Rafael Senior at the helm and peace at their side?

Yet the time for playing Peter Pan had come and gone. A reality made abundantly clear, when Rafael revealed the events following the horseman’s meeting, to the patriarch himself. Rafael Jr. may conduct himself a boy, but Famine needed a man. He scoffed, leaving his father at the breakfast table, and found solace elsewhere. The aggravation built on his and Kitty’s latest project, still in his system. Rafael had access to his own personal gym, as well as those in the Femenias’ Estate. But he required distance, and the presence of others. The gym was as good a place as any. Without it being home to Famine itself, it allowed him some reprieve, with only low-level members of Famine’s ranks at his side. More often than not, his presence was one of grandiose narcissism. Always one to pass a flirtatious smile at the women, or shake hands with one of his mates. Even his wears, beaming of expense and tasteful color. Today, however, he opted for a black muscle shirt and slim fit sweatpants. His mood, dour and restless, brought him to the treadmill. Quick on his feet, he allowed the sweat to build along his body. Not stopping until his mind was clear, and his legs were within an inch of turning tender.

He presses pause, catching his breathe with his hands clasped along the handles. Rafael steps off, approaching the water cooler. The sudden collision of a shoulder against his, prompting him to stop and turn. The recognizable features, of a man that wrought heartache on his sister. "Really, Saint?” Rafael raises his brows expectantly, attempting some ease to his tone despite the irritability that he barely masked. The distance that prevailed since the blow-up between him and Kitty, grew in ten-fold with each passing day. The events of yesterday, only adding to the rift. But while he had loved his sister, and had a connection with his brother... Saint was once as good a friend as any within Famine. Almost family, even. They were like-minded hearts and minds, trapped in the same circles yet destined to make the best of it. He fusses his brows, the visible rage on Saint’s face in turn. “Mierda,” he mutters under his breathe. “What do you want?”