#wb.open

( open to all / met gala ) Whether badged and vested, wired, or sporting event attire as he was now, Selim had never been a stranger to high profile events. While not his first with Tristan by his side, as he walks through crowds, for the first time in a long time, he finds himself checking over his shoulder, counting exits, visually patting down every one who came into close proximity to him or anyone who he now considered family — he knew where they set up, his former colleagues — on roof-tops, in the sidelines, dressed in all black, wired to the nines, holding negative and sometimes sick opinions of normal people. It's how one clocks him that unsettles his stomach this time - the more that he closed cases as a private investigator, the more eyes of his former colleagues fell on him. Were they worried, he wondered? That the next name brought to light would be their's?

WHO: Vincente & Open

WHEN/WHERE: Halloween, The Brooklyn Paramount

Ghost, Ghouls, Goblins — in this room, where fresh starts strike FEAR in every heart, nobody could tell any of them apart. On different avenues with turf lines between them and wiped history, the tipped balances of a for-profit organized killing MACHINE and a CHILD king with loyal followers seemed to favour THEM least, warriors at best, survivors in the end. But in the insignificant space of underestimation was where Vincente thrived. Void of his normal carefree abandon, he stands in this room, un-masked, not wearing a costume, as a LEADER. All eyes find him as he enters, with a quick wave of his hand, two men disperse among the crowd; if there was one thing he knew, being so visible when he normally would've sat this out like every other year, would make him a TARGET — even to some of HIS people. Focused on scanning the room, he doesn't hear the voice to his left. Levi; Halil; Esmerelda; Josh; Vivian.

The broken cobblestones beneath his feet are wet, shiny with the downpour of rain that had, in all its irony, decided to descend now of all times. He could have moved. In theory. In theory, he could just moved and walked home—but he doesn't make a habit of walking home, his phone was dead, his driver was nowhere to be found. Sitting here under what was clearly a diluvium of biblical proportions, meant to wipe out civilization which had gone horribly wrong (again), felt like the next best thing.

He tries and fails to light up a cigarette against the rain, mumbling something of a curse under his breath when he can't—pressed to the building's wall like a dejected kitten, drenched, and showing no indication of moving.

"Someone stole it..." he mumbles drunkenly when he noticed a hazy figure in the dark his eyes couldn't quite make out, addressing the missing shoe, which he assumes was what had peaked their interest. Maybe. "This city's full of bad, bad people..."

Adelaide behaves much like someone who'd spent her life spinning under the scrutiny of critics and strangers alike: like a doll, her lashes are curled, her hair combed into unruly submission, and her nails manicured and filed to an generally acceptable length.

it had been one of those nights, long, heavy, the kind that settled into her bones. after a double shift, the last thing nia wanted was to go home, because home meant responsibility waiting for her in the quiet. it meant her father, and the version of herself that never truly got to rest. so she stalled. somehow she ended up in a booth tucked into the far corner, not even remembering when she slid into it, or when exhaustion finally won and she folded forward, head resting on crossed arms against the table.

a light nudge jolted her awake. nia startled hard, heart slamming against her ribs as she nearly jumped out of her seat. she turned toward the person beside her, eyes still unfocused, pulse racing.

“jesus, are you tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” she muttered, already knowing better, already cataloging the irony. she exhaled, steadying herself, then added more quietly, “what d’you need?”

location: coffee shop @ manhattan

he felt the baby tense before the cry even came. one of those tiny, warning squirm that told him exactly what was coming. almost a second later, the cry broke loose, thin, raw. hunger. heath carefully gathered the baby closer, his long fingers cupping the back of that fragile head as he crossed the street in long, hurried steps. manhattan was chaotic, but none of it mattered compared to the trembling little gasp against his coat "alright, alright, ya hungry. i hear ya" heath said, already turning toward the nearest coffee shop. years had passed since he had a newborn in his arms, and yet his body remembered everything. it pulled something ancient and instinctive to the surface, a longing he'd almost forgotten he carried

A drink for a question-it sounded like a fair exchange. In theory. Except... she's never been the poster girl for 'handling your alcohol', and she can't stomach anything stronger than fruity cocktails that make her feel like such an unbelievable cliché whenever she caves and orders them at the bar.