Matevos wasn’t one who was much distracted by death. It happened, sadly it happened to those in the criminal circuit a lot more, but since he’d joined the Morenos, he’d seen plenty of people around him perish. He could be next in a few days, it wouldn’t even come as a surprise. The whole show around it was interesting, after all, it was a higher up person, someone who stood in the criminal lime light. 

He still thought it was a person who had died. The show around it, the longer it lasted, was turning his stomach. He figured the photographers would leave at some point, but nope, they were enjoying this far too much. 

He shrugged as he joined Winona at the window. “They’re doing their jobs, they want that sweet cash, this is just easy,” he told her. “I’m not surprised. Not sure gawking at them from the window is such a smart move,” he offered. “They’re looking for anything right now. Even when they don’t know what they’re looking for yet. Wanna give them the middle finger?”

@1mpulsec0ntrol

LOCATION: halycon, offices

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 when it comes to just how cruel humanity can be -- possessing little faith in those who pretended to be so almighty and full of goodness. and while she could tolerate it for some amount of time, something she could not was unintelligence. why weren't they acting? if there was any time for a dick-measuring contest, it was now. why were the boys of the moreno brigade not all over this? she had taken some amount of solace in the quiet of the back rooms -- shutting the chatter out on the other side of the door. glass of wine in hand, she watches as the press scramble for pictures, like a clan of lions ripping apart their pray. she can see the headlines now with every flash: oh, how the mighty have fallen.

her senses are keen enough to notice that the door has opened, throwing back the last of her wine before she makes an effort to turn. 'tis not an intoxicated gambler who got a bit too curious -- but a familiar face. matevos. with an aggravated sigh, she looks from him to the awaiting crowd, taking pause before speaking.

❝ look at 'em. ❞ the vulture scoffs, eyes filled with a mixture of disgust and pity. even from behind panes of glass, she could smell the stench of their desperation. ❝ the way they're snappin' those pictures, one might think new york city's never seen a crime before. fuckin' sickos. ❞ to some, one might surmise that the words were painfully ironic coming from her. when in reality, it was the facade she had worked so hard to build beginning to crack.

@alamortz ft. Yasemin

Zakir knew his position with Sawayama was one that offered him many opportunities, however, it also gave him plenty of trouble. He didn’t advertise it, he made sure to make his dealings in dark street corners, he didn’t talk openly with other members of the gang, only at concerts or in public spaces. He was clear on his limitations, but he also knew that there were chances that he was going to be found out. 

He had been told however, who to look out for. The crime families of New York City were always at war with the law, and thus he’d been briefed on who to stay away from. He gritted his teeth as he stepped into the queue at the bookstore, the line was long, someone at the front was asking a whole lot of questions. “Yallah, does she not see the line behind her?”

@alamortz ft. Meredith at a bar

Matevos brushed the dog hairs from his pants and then joined Meredith at the bar. It wasn’t strange to be anywhere near other members of the Moreno gang, or even associates, and the doctor certainly wasn’t a stranger. Matevos’ job could get dangerous, it could get violent. He threw his winter coat over the barstool and sat down on it. He ordered himself a coffee - despite there being clear alcoholic options. Caffeine would be enough for him. “What are you drinking?” he asked the other, smiling kindly.

He wasn’t one to judge someone’s addictions. He also wasn’t someone who judged others, certainly not those who were with Moreno, enemies, yes, those he’d study and observe, but he’d never let on, after all, he was smiling brightly. Anyone might think there really was nothing going on behind those eyes of his.

Zakir accepted the apology, even though it was unnecessary and he’d been the one to block the doorway. “Alright, habibi,” he said, not realising the other’s affiliations, nor his discomfort, mostly focussed on making it up to him. He ordered himself a tea and a hot chocolate milk with whipped cream and little marshmallows for the other. He’d not meant to call him a kid, solely going off on the fact that he was shorter than him. And now with the order, as the words rolled off his own tongue, that became a fact. “Yeah, yeah, something warm.” He paid for the two drinks and regained his composure, looking outside as the weather kept going. “You are truly on time, it’s coming down far heavier now,” he said, pointing at the window. 

"i... u—um." jasper may have been a firm member of the morenos, sworn in by blood, but that didn't mean he had the stock to be any use. he was a gentle soul, somebody that tore himself apart if he forgot to hold the door for someone, if he accidentally stepped on a slug on a wet walk home. the mousy boy righted himself, withdrawing from zakir the second he was stable. that slightly northern-edged british accent set him apart the stoney faces, the grunts in his direction, the shoves of shoulders. "i'm sorry." he spoke, smoothing down the messy tresses of prematurely-greying hair. "i'm okay. i just wanted a hot chocolate." there was a moment of quiet, before adding, "with whipped cream and little marshmallows. please. thank you." the kindness of strangers was a foreign occurrence. nobody seemed to want to help him in new york, especially in the darkest recesses. "something to stave off the cold."

Zakir grinned, the confidence still there, but amusement most of all. He felt bad for playing with it, but from time to time he enjoyed setting up a situation to gather the feeling of being wanted by her. As if he should only be stealing one heart, even if he already had it. “Oh no, the hearts I steal are solely the metaphorical ones,” he told her. “What is art if not a way to unlock feelings in others. I want to thrust my words out in the world and have people clasp onto them. Find their hearts stolen by my music, feel in them something to aspire too, something they are, something they could be.” He took a deep breath. “But they’ll never understand me fully, even if I were to pour my soul into every vibration of my songs, they can’t hear the truth between the lines.” 

Coming from Delhi, Zakir had been taught to act by the rules of the caste system, even if his Muslim father had fought against its beliefs and his uncle had spoken of this American Dream. Zakir knew there was always a social order. But his upbringing had given him the room to reflect, even among like-minded there was differentiation. Even among different castes there was cohesion. He would never fully immerse into Anchali’s world, which was what kept them apart, she would only ever understand his struggles as a child superficially. But despite it, they were kindred souls, two halves of the same star. Did she know the songs of love and longing were often about her? The one he could never have, but would hold onto with all his might. 

“Wallah, I shall keep my hands to myself then,” he joked. He met the apology with a smile. Then the offer with a grin. He might be a rapper, a charmer, a criminal by association, but he was also a romantic at heart. His mother believed a man should not cook, his father believed a man should not learn to cook. They looked down upon the idea of him living on his own, without a woman to take care of him. Old traditions, backwards thinking. As if they were not a Muslim and a Hindu married against the odds. So he’d taught himself to cook. After all, recipes were words on paper, and he mastered words. “If you’d say yes. My heart could not take the rejection if you’d not let my food win you over,” he said in return. The charm of his persona met with the softness of the man underneath. The one who tried to hold onto his culture and his heart, no matter the strain.

There was not much to say, knowing her future, whereas his had always been wide open. And despite it, or perhaps because of it, she had been the most important key in his escape. In his coming here. Without her support, her words of encouragement, he would still be in Delhi. He knew he’d come for his art, his future, his words, but perhaps he’d also come for her. Despite knowing it was a fruitless endeavour. But he also wanted her happy. “Perhaps you should meet some of these suitors, to see if you can create a bond of understanding.” Perhaps he should too, cast out a net, find people beyond one-off flirtations and one-night stands. Even if those were so infrequent they could be better looped in with loneliness than anything substantial. “I don’t mind solely being your now, Māśūqa.” he told her. Whatever she would wish of him. Though there was little they could want knowing the risks of their connection. As if there was always glass between them. They could hear each other, they could confide, but they could not touch. 

Letting the kettle do its work, Zakir turned to face Anchali completely, his tea ready to steep, wondering at the complete taste that might come from it. He watched her with great care, finding the words of this new song still fresh and forceful in his mind, though the real Zakir is sharp underneath, a little hesitant, a little nervous, even though he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Nobody cares Until you’re rich Pretty, dead

Nobody cares  jab tak aapaka astitv nahin rahega

Aadar, aadar

Who do they think we are Messed up paryaapt maanaveey nahin

We’re only here for their entertainment  Fading out on dirty pavement Getting shot in empty bars aadar dikhao, aadar hamaaree maut ka sammaan karen”

It was half done, perhaps not even half, tumbled lines thrust together in Hindi and English, to be rearranged at a later time. The words were there, the flow was there, but he still found the arrangement unclear. He always used English as a base language, after all, that was the language most people here spoke. On top of that Hindi and Arabic were the languages he used for expression, and all the others he knew acted as fillers, as flesh to connect the bones.”What do you think?” he asked. 

Observing Zakir's countenance, Anchali wears a expression seasoned with familiarity and amusement, her lips gently curving into a subtle smile. "Stealing hearts? Are you implying a venture beyond a singular conquest?" she muses, her tone adorned with a hint of admiration and a slight jealousy. "Managing more than one, I see?" Accompanying him to the kitchen, she holds a glass of water, and as she moves, tiny droplets of condensation trace delicate paths upon the floor.

Upon the mention of rummaging through cupboards, Anchali chuckles, the resonant sound carrying a rich and melodious quality. "Now, darling, there's no need for such endeavors," she remarks, revealing an effortless sense of control. The management of her apartment's cleanliness is delegated to hired hands, a task swiftly accomplished with the mere assignment of responsibility. She finds charm in Zakir's willingness to undertake this minor favor. Offering a slight apology, she adds, "Usually, my father's personal chef ensures my evening sustenance." Yet, even a home-cooked meal by a chef formerly employed at Nobu fails to compete with the warmth and authenticity that Zakir infuses into every sip of his chai, transforming the ordinary into an extraordinary experience. "Perhaps instead, one day you'll ask to cook dinner for me?"

As Zakir pauses for reflection, Anchali meets his gaze with a depth of understanding that transcends verbal communication. The unspoken dialogue between them serves as a testament to the profound bond forged through exchanged letters and shared experiences. Nodding in acknowledgment of his sentiments, she recognizes a mutual understanding that transcends the spoken word. "You speak the truth," she concedes, and the admission leaves her tongue with a bitter aftertaste. Her response mirrors his confidence. Despite the unique connection they share, an acknowledgment of the potential for connections beyond their own duo lingers palpably. "My father maintains an extensive list of suitors for my consideration in the context of... a lasting commitment." Duty dictates a marriage for the sake of the family's company, regardless of any personal fondness. "My forever, unfortunately is spoken for." Yet, if she were honest with herself, and in full control of her future, the individual in front of her would be the sole owner of her forever. He was the only one she could trust with that darkness within her having given him glimpses inside sugar coated with pretty words and a lot of time. Little do they know the depth of fondness Anchali must own for such an individual to share so much with....

Observing the alchemy unfolding at Zakir's hands, Anchali perches herself atop the marble counters of her kitchen, relinquishing her glass to the sink. As she settles into her newfound position, she idly watches the alchemy of ingredients and the orchestration of chai-making. With a request that is as casual as it is anticipatory, she utters, "A sample, please."

Matevos never worried about being too forward in his requests and suggestions, and he found it kind of endearing that Elspeth didn’t seem to hold back either. Plenty of people tended to avoid the subject of death, but of course, having a job like Elspeth’s, that wasn’t an option. And he was the last person who would feel uncomfortable speaking about it. He wasn’t new to it, nor to the consequences. To him, there were worst things than death, death was a natural part of life. And God was dead, why else would people by dying at Christmas? 

“Well, in that case, I’ll hold him hostage while you work until you’re back,” he suggested. “If I’m welcome to come over, that is. I don’t really do anything for Christmas usually, except going to mass on the 24th, habit more than actually believing in anything anymore. Oh, and for the old ladies, they love me.” Understatement, if the old lady crew at church had tails, they’d be wagging every time Matevos showed up. 

He clinked his mug, the coffee almost completely gone already. When did that happen? “I like that image, every dog gets their bone, every human gets… a hug or something.” You cheesy fucker. Should’ve said a kiss. He smiled broadly.

note to self: swing by the pet shop and pick up a bone or two, for matevos' sake. quickly elspeth's attention was stolen from the coffee and the half-eaten pie. instead, they focused on the man beside her, eyes soft, lips curled in a permanent smile. "well, i could do with some company... it would be nice, and all, if i'm not called into work before santa even swings by. death doesn't wait for anyone." it was poetic, in a sense, that everyone was equal—no moreno, no sawayama, no gutierrez, just flesh and bone. it was a gentle nudge away from the inferred—elspeth didn't want matevos to feel as though he had to arrive on her doorstep at the strike of midnight with his arms overflowing with gifts and mistletoe. of course, such an image would have made their entire year, but that was besides the point. just a text would have been enough, reassurance that their move across the country hadn't been for no reason. their mug was raised, clinking against matevos'. "lets hope next year every dog gets their bone."

Zakir bit the inside of his mouth at the ‘common criminal’ comment. Sure, he was protected by Sawayama, and he was participating in their business, though it was only through translations, but he wouldn't call himself a common criminal. “I wasn’t shulking,” he said, as he noted the ‘shulking’ as a word he wanted to use, as soon as he looked up the full meaning. The English Language had a large vocab, and he was always learning new things. He felt like he mastered it, but he’d never know as much vocab as he knew in Hindi and Arabic. 

He wasn’t given a choice, the way the wraith moved past him, the knife appearing, he felt more like he was being kidnapped than sent home. He looked around, trying to figure out if he could regain the sense for danger he’d had once. “No, not far,” he told her, because it was much safer to assume she meant well, even if his hand reached for his neck at the sight of the knife. “While I appreciate the offer, habibty,” he said. “I’m not too sure us being seen together is such a good idea.” He could recognise she was Gutierrez, even though he’d forgotten her name. “As might your show of knives.”

being a song would have been maiya's worst nightmare, but what did it matter if she never heard such a thing? she understood, to an extent—the way she moved through the darkness was like a shadow, an apparition, breath on cold air when it clouded. "maybe you shouldn't be skulking around like a common criminal." spoke summaiya as she settled on the ground, soles to concrete, arms crossed over her chest with one eye over zakir's shoulder. although they were on opposing sides, he wasn't a moreno—therefore there was a softness, a part of her that empathised with the figure in the twilight. "well, then let me walk you." and it seemed that zakir didn't have much of a choice. soundlessly, her knife glinted in the moonlight as she produced it from the holster at her thigh. "you'll get killed if you're out here alone, especially if you keep that tendency of not looking for danger before you turn down alleyways. are you far away?" she moved ahead of the other, striding as though she knew the route already.

“Wallah! Kid! Look out,” Zakir said, as their interaction turned into a collision. He grabbed for the other’s shoulders and tried to set him back up right. “Are you alright? Alhamdulillah, you made it out of that storm, and fairly dry as well. “Yallah, I’ll get you something, habibi, for the trouble,” he said quickly, taking his hands away just as quickly when he was no longer needed, though he eyed the ground for a moment to stare at the water, then dripped off towards the counter. “What do you want, habibi? Something warm?” He felt slightly guilty, if he’d gotten out of the way, both their nerves would’ve been spared. However, he still carried his aloof air, while his speech gave away that he was trying to compensate. 

wind whipped through his prematurely greying hair. jasper clutched a book to his chest, raising it over his face whenever a particular strong gust blew towards him. it did little to offer him respite, but it was something—his cheeks were pink from the slaps of the unrelenting weather. at least the café would give him shelter. there weren't many people he could trust with making his perfect cup of hot chocolate (two spoons of powder, warm milk, cream, marshmallows) but perhaps he could settle with a slightly pithy drink to pass the time. words were recited over and over again in his mind: a hot chocolate, please. as simple as that. as he approached, his stomach swam with the nerves of speaking to a stranger. jasper hoped he would recognise whoever was behind the counter to make the ordeal easier to navigate. his thoughts were soon tranquillised. a shove of wind threw him through the doors, toppling into zakir, nearly losing his footing altogether. "gosh—" he scrambled to maintain balance, "—it's blowing a real gale."

Zakir felt like people didn’t value the sound of their own names as much as they should. There was so much more to a name than a name, such sweetness is the way it was pronounced, the additions to it, the feel of the vibrations on the wind. He loved it when his mother called him beta, when his father called him zakir, whenever people shouted baagee. He used names for everyone, he enjoyed acknowledging the special bonds between them, with words and with actions, but words most of all. 

“Habibty,” he said, with all the sweetness in his voice, “I fear nobody knows how to handle you, but there is nothing I wouldn’t be willing to try,” he said with a smooth voice. Then he winked and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “How long is your break?” he asked. 

the brunette loved dancing . it was a job where she got paid to have fun . the loud music , the endless chatter — it was nice to have the voices that haunted her head go mute . however , that didn't mean it didn't get too much . with all the positives , the negatives always came to bite . having to listen to men rant to her about how shitty their wives are , people not following her no - touching policy , and people trying to pay her extra to take her home . too much , indeed .

that's why she loved it when it was her break . to get away from it all , and there was no way she would waste a single second of it . leaving the loud , crowded building to be outside with the fresh air , as well as fresh new york could give .

katherine leaned against the wall , the muffled noises bringing her some peace as the cool breeze hit her skin . she only had her eyes closed for a moment when she heard the door open . a smile immediately appeared on her lips as she saw who it was . it was always nice to see a friendly face . ❝ zakir . . . ❞ she whispered as she grabbed the drink and brought it up to her lips . she didn't really drink while on the job , as she wanted to be as sober as possible , but one drink couldn't hurt . letting out a chuckle , her eyes took all of him in . ❝ think you can handle me , sir . ❞ she brought her cup to her lips once more .

Zakir offered a smile, at least an honest answer, he didn’t mind at all to hear it. The other sat in a way that made him want to write about it, the general vibe, the way he was being studied by their presence, the strange way they studied. It was in places like this with people like this that he found most of his inspiration. He had always lived his life through words, and he’d always held in regard the way people described him, even if they would not offer him words in return. There was a power to speech, but a power to non-verbal communication as well. 

He wiped off the sweat again, then swept the underside of his shirt over his neck and shoulders, not that any part of his shirt was still dry, but at least the simple act made him feel less sweaty. “I do, definitely as a supporting act,” he admitted. “Though I personally enjoy being the main performer on the stage more. Do you like this sort of thing?” he asked, throwing parts of the sentence back at the stranger, then licking the sweat from above his lips.

it's a wonder what brings the crowd . is it the ambience , is it the performances , or is it the escape ?? solace in a scene that just feels different to most of new york's dingy bars . while tobias isn't so familiar with the underground music scene , they've yet to witness to any vocal ambush , or a single punch thrown . " i'm not sure , " they admit , words forming around a sip taken from a glass that's now half empty . they try not to be too investigative as gaze hones in on a bead of sweat forming around the other's brow , but there's no helping themselves . " do you do this sort of thing often ?? "

Matevos chuckled. He could easily ignore the world, like a little switch in his brain that he could flip whenever he wanted to. He had to have it. Because he could be a vet one moment, and a chapo the next. It was easier if he kept those worlds as separate as possible. It helped in situations like this as well, for a moment, he could even forget that they had very different parts to play. And thus he could smile kindly and happily, and count his lucky stars that his dumb questions weren’t met with confusion. 

“That’s good to know,” he said, with a wink. It meant that at least he would be able to do nice things for them and not have to worry too much about a grand gesture. “In general I think Santa Claus should give dogs a bone,” he suggested. “So my request is basically a plea for the festivities in general.” He nodded. “Tennessee,” he’d never been good at distances, and he wasn’t one who would go home to visit family anyway. Still. “So what you’re saying is… you need company for the holidays?”

the date, that moment in time carved from the wedge of reality, made it seem like the world wasn't all that bad after all. if there were people in new york that could still remain soft despite it all, kind eyes that were gentle and rounded like cocoa, perhaps elspeth could exist comfortably after all. tennessee hadn't been perfect. they were still coming to terms with families that weren't white, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, but they didn't drop like flies, either. bodies didn't make it to the morgue pockmarked with stab wounds or needle points. rodeo accidents? sure. moonshine poisoning? it was certainly a localised problem, but there were nights were elspeth missed those good-for-nothing cowboys that took the wrong road to addiction. at least there was a stroke of innocence to their demises. now, she was a cog in a wider machine, promised a set of shackles if the fbi ever caught scent of the mortuary's dealings. "well, you know, i'm easy to please..." elspeth spoke. that much was clear from the huge smile playing on their lips as they chewed their section of pie, blowing into the wisps of coffee steam. "sounds like santa has a lot of work to do to get through your list. i guess that makes up for my half-hearted request. my family is in tennessee. knoxville." a million miles away, it seemed. it was why elspeth's words held a twang like honey dripping off a spoon. "it's hardly worth travelling back to see them with the traffic and the terrible weather. it'll be a cosy, quiet one for me."

Zakir smiled, looking back at Ancali with the expression of a young man having the confidence needed to make it big, though of course he knew he needed more than confidence. He was good at what he did, he knew languages, if he didn’t make it big that way, then so be it. He would give it his all. “No doubt,” he repeated after her. “All I can hope for is to steal hearts.” 

His eyes glittered, he always ended up buying too many things that were from home, even if they probably hadn’t come from India. He could never have enough of it. His parents were never going to join him in New York City, they would never visit, but still, if they ever did, they would find his apartment to be almost a place home away from home. “Expired food, arre yaar.” He laughed. “I’ll clean out your cupboards as well next time, inshallah.” He had home-cooked meals half of the time, as the other half he found himself in nearby restaurants that offered him familiar foods and familiar languages. To him, culture and food went hand in hand, and keeping his language skills on track was equally important. 

Reflective of her sentiment and her gaze, Zakir kept it locked for a moment. There was a momentary pause. He understood the soberness, he understood Anchali better than he understood himself. A full image made of letters and chats, but mostly the letters. Between the two of them, they’d been vibrant and present, they’d said all they wanted to say and more between the lines. He’d never known anyone as intimately as he knew her. “You speak of the present as if there is no way to change in the future, I recognise a kindred soul, but I am certain I won’t be the only one forever.” He offered the words not kindly, but with confidence, because he too felt like there was nobody who understood him better than her, but he wanted to believe there would be others. 

Zakir hummed, not the easiest ingredients, but he’d grown up practical, he could make chai with whatever the world provided. He raided her fridge and her cupboards after he’d filled up the kettle and put it on the fire. He found two cups as well, collecting a nice size assortment to seep. “Once it’s finished? Or do you want a sample?” he asked with a smirk, throwing a look over his shoulder at her. 

Anchali regarded Zakir with a contemplative expression, her eyes momentarily locking onto the words he jotted down. The intricacies of his eloquence, she acknowledged, were like a finely crafted blade that could cut through the complexities of emotions and situations. A subtle smile played on her lips, appreciative of the fact that Zakir's linguistic prowess was not just a tool but an art, one she had recognized and valued since their paths first crossed many years ago. Somewhere in that tiny apartment, inside one of the large walk-in closets were a stack of letters her pen pal had written her. "I have no doubt that someday the world will come to appreciate the beauty of your words just as I have," she replied, her tone carrying a certain warmth that betrayed a deep understanding. Little did he know that the beauty she speaks of had touched her heart in ways she'd never dare speak.

As he mentioned bringing over some spices and the cultural significance of chai, Anchali's eyes sparkled with a touch of amusement. "You are always welcome." Despite the unspoken fact that allegiances were for different families and factions, he'd been a friend first. They'd hide their blades forever if need be. "Hiding chai in one of my cupboards will be a game worth playing. I'm sure you'll find plenty of room between the rarely-used dishes and expired food." The woman hardly had time to dedicate to a home-cooked meal.

The weight of his words about the finite nature of things lingered in the air. Anchali listened intently, her expression shifting into a more somber reflection. She could feel the resonance of his sentiments, the ebb, and flow of power and vulnerability. She could listen to the linguist speak for hours, maybe then he'd finally find a way to settle her heart. "Sometimes I wonder if you're the only one who has ever understood me," she remarked, her gaze momentarily distant as she delved into the profoundness of his words.

She watches him move to his feet, and a childish longing silently grumbles as if he wasn't going to return. "Yes, there's a kettle, and lemons and limes and a couple of pomegranate seeds." she replied, refocusing on the present moment. Despite her comfort, she follows him, socks upon hard wooden floors of her apartment glide to the kitchen. "And will I be able to hear the song?"

Zakir always tried to act tougher than he was, until instances occurred where his true self was no longer hidden, when emotions grew too high too quickly, and it was impossible to wrap himself up quickly again. “Wallah, you scared me to death,” he uttered, holding a hand to his heart as he took a step away from the phantom crawling down from her perch. He couldn’t help that instantly he was thinking of making a song about it, the image was simply too great to not want to write down, the way language and impressions swirled around the wraith, her knife, the silence. 

She was right though, he’d lost touch with the more careful person he was. He’d already lost pieces of the person he’d once been. No longer careful. As if he hadn’t grown up on the streets of Delhi. “I’m just heading home,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he should be telling someone protected by an opposing gang.

@1mpulsec0ntrol ── summaiya & zakir

"you need to be more careful. shit." maiya pocketed her knife and slinked down from her position on the window ledge, overlooking the dark alley which zakir had turned down. one of the first mistakes of living in the underbelly of new york—always check over your shoulder. she moved as her moniker suggested; the wraith was a gust of wind, the drop of a pin. silence incarnate. "i could've thrown this at you and had your head in an instant, and i don't need sawayama on my back as well as those damn morenos. is there a reason you're out so late with a death wish? you're lucky it was me and not one of those other psycho soldiers who see red when they're out on patrol."

Zakir smiled, noting the alcohol and the lack of quick response, some people just enjoyed feeling sorrowful over a glass of something stronger. Not that he’d ever had that tendency, though at times he liked to pretend to nurse his own glass as he contemplated life’s mysteries. He wasn’t a man prone to the blues, but some days he liked to envision he had a sweet voice that could bring solace beyond the quick spitting raps he produced. A singing voice perhaps, who brought sweet melodies without needing the beat of a bass or the subtle ring of a piano. 

“One of them has a thing for one of the performers?” He grinned at the gossip. “Very kind of you to support them, will you tell me who it is? Perhaps I can do a good word for your friend?” he said with all the amusement behind his voice. He’d upped his grandeur often enough that compliments should leave him with very little to say, the arrogance he liked to portray up on the stage however, didn’t always come back down with him, sometimes it stayed behind, a thing greater than himself. And he would morph back into the impressionable artist. “Main aapaka dhanyavaad bahut shaaleenata se sveekaar karata hoon," I accept your thanks most gracefully he said, finding it easier to walk the fine line between his own person and his persona when he switched back to his own language. “I’m merely supporting this evening, if you’d like a full show, I play next Saturday at the Horse’s Mouth.”

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 by nature -- even she had friends who were hell-bent on forcing her to see the world. in her case, they were simply too persistant to say no to. despite having lived in new york city all her life, believing wholeheartedly that she knew every inch of every borough... perhaps there was still some amount of room for surprises. a couple shots later the woman was certainly feeling less hesitant about her confusion. change is good. the woman told herself -- even if from previous life experience she knew it couldn't have been further from the truth. yet, tequila always manages to fix a lot of problems, even if it would only create more when the morning comes.

it takes a moment for her to realize that an individual is making a feeble attempt to get her attention ( not due to their efforts -- she is simply as oblivious as they come ), and she flinches when she finally makes the connection. ❝ oh! uh, yeah.. and crowded. ❞ araceli despises nothing more than feeling out of control, and she's slowly come to realize that she's begun to show her cards the longer she stands at the bar nursing her vodka soda -- unwilling to speak to a single soul. ❝ my friends, actually... i don't exactly get out much. one of them has a thing for one of the performers. ❞ after another moments pause and one sip later to shake the awkward feeling that shrouded her, she speaks again. ❝ i saw you on stage.. you sounded great. ❞

OPEN STARTER - MATEVOS HAKOBYAN Central park

Matevos clapped his hands together, even though it was rather clear that neither of the two strays had been taught well, they didn’t at all listen. Probably the worst possible decision to let them roam the park freely, but Matevos carried enough snacks in his pocket to hold a feast for every dog in the park. He held his hands against his face, and yelled their names, to which only one replied. Snowball, a huge black and white husky - whomever had come up with that name had probably thought it was funny - flew at him, sniffing at his pockets, waiting for snacks to be produced. 

He put Snowball back on its lease and then jogged towards where he’d seen Jordy run off to. “Apologies,” he said as he located the big shaggy street dog, who’d settled down next to someone, tongue lolling. “This monster right here still doesn’t know how to follow basic commands. I hope she didn’t say anything rude.”

@rufficns ft. Jasper

Zakir pressed his bomber jacket closer to his body as the cold wind swept through the street, walking to find shelter in an almost empty bar, dark clouds were gathering up ahead, visible through the large towers and buildings. There was a storm coming, which was rather iconic given the situation. Whatever storm was brewing under the surface of the city, only time would tell if it was more powerful than an actual storm.

He ordered himself a coffee at the bar and checked the area, happy to have gotten inside before the rain poured down. The sudden sound of it was beautiful, drops pressed against the large windows, a cold gust of wind pulled into the bar again as the door burst open. The violence of the weather outside was awful, though Zakir was in awe. His eyes shiny as he looked outside. Completely in the way of the patron trying to escape the weather outside. "Subhanllah," he whispered, then noticed the person. "Oh, hi, sorry!"

Zakir frowned, his smirk remaining however, as Anchali talked, from anyone else, the fact that he was ‘useful’ in a way might hurt, from anyone else he might lock his heart up just a little tighter if his sole purpose was to be of use. But with her, he knew it came from a place of knowledge, of care. Or so he wished to believe, in any way. That she requested his help because he had talent for words, and because she had been one of the firsts to recognise that talent, many many years ago. “Eloquence, I do like that, I might use that describe me, some day,” he said, jotting the word down instantly, grinning as he did so. He added a few more words, room, wielding power, appropriate. One could never be sure when such words proved useful. “Always here to help,” he added. 

Zakir pushed his glasses back by twitching his nose and gave a look back at the kitchen. Now, if they were at his place. He had been taught to always keep some spices around, and a kettle, and whichever other ingredients he might like to add. Chai was of great cultural importance, an offering, a refuge. “I’ll bring some over next time, then I’ll hide it in one of your cupboards.” He rolled his shoulders, muscles exhausted from late nights and long trips. He should let his hands and arms rest more, but he’d never been good at staying still. 

“In a way, most songs are inspired by the finity of one thing or another. There is a definite ending to everything, to love, to power, to freedom, to life.” He tried to pierce the veil of this particular horror, but he could not take away what she dealt with with mere words. Sometimes they meant the world, other times they were as useless as the paper they were written on. “When you’re young there is a feeling of being powerful, of being invincible, even in the eyes of death around you, there are very few worries about walking down town. All the monsters are imaginary. Even the real ones. And then real life crashes in, and suddenly there is fear, a fear greater than previously to be understood. And then everything makes sense, there is just no way to fix it,” he said. He got up from his position on the bed. “You do have a kettle right? Maybe some lemons or any fruits I can make into tea?” 

He answered her question as she stood. “My song needs an urgency, this isn’t the type of horror that deserves a soft melody. It requires a boastful expression. And then I’ll hope it will land.” 

Anchali met his gaze with a composed, appraising stare, the subtle shift from his frown to a smirk mirrored in her own upturn of lips. "Relaxing? Perhaps," she responded, her words delivered with a measured cadence and imbued with nuanced layers of meaning. Of course her friend provided comfort. He's the only exception to the sting of the scorpion that is ready to self-destruct."But, more importantly, you bring a certain… eloquence to this room. Words, after all, wield power in both conversation and strategy. I may need your help choosing the appropriate words for the next Gala when referring to the recent passing..."

His suggestion of spicy chai was met with a subtle nod, acknowledging a growing hankering in the pit of her empty stomach. Maybe a distraction from work would do better than diving back in? "You know, that does sound relaxing," she remarked, her voice a velvety purr that betrayed a sophistication resonating in the ambient air. Anchali, however, spoke with a tinge of irony, for she had yet to experience the simple pleasure of a handmade cup of chai. "If only Starbucks delivered…" In the context of their era, such a level of customer service felt like a distant luxury.

As Zakir's gaze shifted to his notebook, her interest peaked. The mention of another song drew a raised eyebrow and a sly smile. "The poetry of horror," she mused, offering a prompt nod that conveyed her understanding of the layers within his sentiments. "Death can be inspiring," she agreed, yet the extent of its impact stirred a palpable fear within her. "It serves as a reminder that our time is finite." Finally, she admitted, "I fear what that inevitability holds for my family."

A subtle half-smile disrupted her otherwise playful smirk. "Your song—does it carry a soft, melancholic melody, or is it a fast-paced composition that echoes the urgency of mortality?"