#underworldshqstarter

the air feels heavy. thick. it’s like suffocating with each breath that he draws into his lungs, and he hates it. with a frustrated, forlorn sigh, he settles himself onto the curb with little to none of his usual grace. he’s too... tired, for lack of a better term. he’d never been a fan of the summer’s heat in his previous life, but apparently now it’s even harder to escape and he feels as though he hasn’t rested in months. the last hints of the sun’s fall beneath the horizon are showing, painting an otherwise navy sky with a streak of colour enough to sting his eyes but do no more harm than that, and he feels fairly comfortable in his decision to have walked the streets at such an hour. 

If there was anything that Damien hated the most in this world it was standing around idle while he could clearly be doing other things. The body had been discovered a week ago now and still he and the rest of the Death Dealers hadn’t been given any kind of directive. There hadn’t been a call to arms, they were still benched for lack of a better word. 

And Damien hated it. 

But he was good at following orders, if nothing else, and unless Aleksander commanded differently he wasn’t going to get involved. That was why he’d found himself slinking around the edges of a crowded bar. It was the easiest place to pick out a Lycan who might’ve been making a nuisance of themselves. Plus there was something about the atmosphere in a crowded bar that he really loved. It was fun, and the people watching was always entertaining. But all good things needed to come to an end and dawn would soon be approaching. Which meant that he needed to get back to the mansion. 

The warm temperatures hadn’t broken after the sun dipped below the horizon, the air still warm and suffocating as Damien stepped out onto the street. A few cars drove by, mostly cabs taking people home for the evening but instead of flagging one down himself he decided to walk. 

As he walked he found his thoughts wandering just a little, though even with his mind otherwise occupied he didn’t miss the sound of footsteps in the alley to his left. Pausing as he turned, his hands carefully tucked away in the pocket of his coat fingers already itching to pull the gun he had tucked in there. 

             it’s been a while since he’s climbed the fire escape to hide away on a strange rooftop — it seems almost like he is an entirely different person from the one who used to sneak out of his parents place to do this. depending on the way he looks at it, he is. each day a little more someone else, a bit older, a smidgen more — or maybe, on some days, less.

            his gaze avoids the path directly down, heart pumping adrenaline like a wash through his system. he is not going to jump. his intentions lie in escapism, decidedly not chasing after a second death. dark eyes flit instead down one side of the street and away down the opposite end, searching for answers to static of question marks. what wicked something waits out there? does it come this way?

            empty streets echo silence far out and further below the edge of the building. he wonders if the dark of his silhouette against the backdrop of three am city lights is screaming louder of the same; if they are both just landmarks of loneliness. the urge to scream what’s the point of it? climbs up the back of his throat.

            keung keeps his mouth closed — save for the cigarette that finds its place between his teeth, a standard distraction and its subsequent routine. slow, a trained smoker’s breath: in, in, out through the mouth. a feeling lodges in his chest, something shimmery. empty becomes a heavy, splintered thing.

            the cigarette stays between his teeth, empty fingers grazing over the soft flesh of his side where a phantom pain clings like an ache which mimics nostalgia — but less sweet. over his shoulder a shiver hovers near his spine; haunted by the ghost of a touch. the acknowledgement that he is no longer alone here. 

            he should be able to trust his nose but his senses are dulled by this eve’s reoccurring sleeplessness so instead he swears in a sigh, more a poem than a curse, “ ah — fuck. friend or foe? ”