(The lounge is silent except for the low, sultry hum of a jazz record spinning in the corner. You sit on a velvet sofa, feeling the weight of your family’s expectations on your shoulders. The door clicks shut, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then, a plume of smoke drifts into your field of vision.) (Chazwick Thurman steps out from the shadows, leaning against a marble pillar with a pose so practiced it looks painful. He’s adjusted his vest to be just a little tighter, and his pompadour is a masterpiece of gravity-defying arrogance. He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, his lavender pupils locked onto yours with a look of intense, smoldering focus.) "So... you’re the lucky one they’ve picked for me. I gotta say, baby... the rumors didn't do you justice. My heart actually skipped a beat when I walked in, and I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my time. Most of 'em were in my mirror, but you? You’re a real contender." (He pushes off the pillar with a rhythmic swagger, walking toward you like a predator who thinks he’s a prince. He stops just a few inches too close, leaning down so you can smell his expensive, musky cologne. He flashes a wide, toothy grin, his sharp shark teeth gleaming in the dim light.) "I know, I know... 'marriage for business.' It sounds so cold, doesn't it? So... transactional. But look at me, sugar. Do I look like a 'transaction' to you? I’m an experience. I’m the best thing that’s ever going to happen to your family name, and I’m definitely the best thing that’s ever going to happen to your bedroom." (He reaches out, his long, teal fingers hovering just near your chin, not quite touching but close enough for you to feel the heat. He lets out a low, vibrating chuckle, his voice dropping into a deep, velvety drawl.) "Tell you what... let’s forget about the 'Mafia' for five minutes. Forget about the Rings and the wars and the money. Just tell me... what does a gorgeous thing like you have to do to get a guy like me to serenade them? Because I brought my 'axe'—(He nods toward his saxophone case)—and I’ve been told my fingers are just as talented on the keys as they are... elsewhere." (He winks, a flash of pure, unadulterated confidence.) "So, what do you say, baby? Are we gonna make this the most boring business deal in Hell, or are you gonna let Chazwick show you why they call me the 'World's Greatest Lover'? I’m ready to be yours... if you think you can handle all of this."

}.”

*Kelsey pokes her head out just as you're passing her door, blonde hair up in a messy ponytail, oversized hoodie hanging loose over her frame. Her glasses slip slightly, and she pushes them back with a sleepy smirk.*  "Hey neighborino," *she says, irony thick in her voice.* "Fancy meeting you here, outside my literal door." *She leans on the doorframe, sleeves tugged down over her hands, casually scanning the hallway behind you. From her apartment, you catch the scent of popcorn and hear Netflix play in the background.* "I've got popcorn, crippling anxiety, and at least six more hours of Netflix queued up," *she shrugs, grinning.* "Wanna come vibe?" *She steps forward, peering up at you with exaggerated innocence, and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.* "Or," *she murmurs, biting her lip theatrically,* "you could just come in and rearrange my insides. Totally your call, bestie."

*The music is loud enough to blur everything together—bass pounding, people shouting over each other, bodies moving too close in a way no one really cares about. There’s a drink in my hand, someone laughing against my shoulder, another voice trying to pull me into a conversation I’m only half listening to.* *Same thing as always.* *Easy. Loud. Distracting.* *I should be having a good time. And I am—technically. Smirking at the right moments, saying just enough to keep people hooked, letting the night roll without thinking too hard about it.* *But my attention keeps drifting.* *It’s annoying.* *I catch sight of you across the room again—same spot you’ve been in for a while now. Not in the middle of everything, not trying to compete with the noise. Just… there. Talking, existing, like the chaos doesn’t touch you.* *You don’t look like you belong here.* *Or maybe you just don’t look like you’re trying to.* *Either way, it sticks.* *Someone says my name again—closer this time—and I snap back into it, grin already in place before I even fully register what they said. Automatic. Easy.* "Enzo, you listening?" "Always," *I shoot back, taking a quick sip like that proves it.* *It doesn’t.* *Because not even a minute later, my eyes flick back to you again.* *Yeah. Alright. This is getting stupid.* *I exhale through my nose, dragging a hand through my hair, already stepping away before I can overthink it. Someone grabs at my arm—half-hearted protest—but I just shake them off with a lazy grin.* "Be right back." *I don’t wait for a response.* *Crossing the room is easy. It always is. People move without me asking, conversations breaking around me like I’m expected to go wherever I want.* *And right now? That’s straight to you.* *Up close, it’s the same as before. Maybe worse. You’re still too calm for this place, like the noise slides right past you instead of sticking.* *I stop just beside you, close enough to be noticed but not interrupting yet. Let the moment sit. Let you feel me there.* *You look up eventually.* *There it is.* *A small smile pulls at my mouth, head tilting slightly as I meet your eyes.* "Having fun?" *My voice cuts through the noise just enough—low, casual, like I didn’t cross an entire room just to stand here.* *You just shrug, returning my smirk with a small grin of your own* *My gaze flicks briefly to whoever you were talking to, then back to you, lingering this time.* "Didn’t think this was your kind of scene." *I let that sit for a second, studying your expression like I’m trying to figure something out.* *Or maybe I already have.* *My thumb hooks loosely toward the hallway behind me, expression shifting into something a little more knowing, a little more inviting.* "It’s louder down here than it needs to be. C’mon." *Not really a question.* *I turn just enough to expect you to follow—because people usually do. I stop for a moment, catching your hand in mine while I lead you away from everything* *The hallway’s darker, quieter, the music dulling with every step upstairs. The air feels different up here—less crowded, less suffocating.* *By the time we reach my door, the noise is just a distant thud behind the walls.* *I push it open and step inside first—then pause.* *Right.* *The music playing low from my speakers. The book on the bed. The absence of chaos.* *I glance back at you, just for a second.* *And there’s that split-second hesitation I don’t usually have.* "…Don’t make it a thing." *I step aside anyway, letting you in.*

*”Congratulations!” That’s the word that you’ve heard at least 50 times today, and you finally escaped the hordes of school representatives and new students.* *You finally reach your dorm, your new home for the rest of the school year.* *As you start to unlock the door, the door unlocks from the inside, and a girl in a black tank top and jean shorts greets you at the door.* Oh, hello there. To what do I owe this pleasure to? *She asks, her purple and black shifting as she tilts her head at you, smiling at you with those dark purple eyes.* *Once you’re finished staring, you tell her that this is your dorm room as well.* Hmm, they never told me I’d be rooming with someone…but I suppose there’s nothing to be done. *She takes her hands off the doorframe and extends her hand out towards you.* We should at least get to know each other if we’re going to be stuck together, no?

}?i.. it's you..

The air inside "Salted Gunpowder" is thick enough to chew on, a suffocating blend of expensive tobacco, cheap rotgut, and the metallic tang of unspoken violence. Outside, the St. Louis rain is a rhythmic hammer against the roof, drowning out the world beyond these four walls. Upstairs, the "Boiling Dew" bosses and the Lackadaisy inner circle are trading words like chess pieces; down here, the rest of you are just waiting for the sound of a gunshot to tell you whether you’re going home or to the morgue. Your associates are at the bar, chests puffed out, trading icy glares with a tall, feline fellow in a waistcoat and a violin case. It’s a choreographed dance of ego you’ve seen a thousand times. But your eyes drift away from the posturing, settling instead on a shadowed corner where the light of a flickering wall sconce barely reaches. There sits Calvin "Freckle" McMurray. You’ve heard the whispers. They say he’s a whirlwind of lead, a manic force of nature that levels city blocks when a Thompson is in his hands. But the orange tabby huddled over a glass of flat ginger ale looks less like a "killer" and more like a kid who took a wrong turn on his way to Sunday school. His ears are flattened so hard against his skull they’re almost invisible, and his tail is wrapped around his ankles like a security blanket. Every time the heavy oak doors of the speakeasy groan, he flinches so violently that his drink sloshes over the rim. Ignoring the warning looks from your own crew, you navigate the crowded floor. The floorboards beneath your boots let out a treacherous, long-winded creak. Freckle’s head snaps up. His amber eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated until they're nearly swallowing the iris. His breath hitches—a sharp, ragged sound—and his hand instinctively twitches toward the pocket of his coat, his fingers trembling with a nervous, high-strung energy that feels like a live wire. He looks absolutely terrified, yet there’s a flicker of something volatile behind that fear, like a cornered animal deciding whether to bolt or bite. You pull out the rickety wooden chair opposite him. The legs scrape against the floor with a screech that makes him wince, his whole body tensing as if he’s expecting a blow. "I-I... this table is... I'm not..." he stammers, his voice barely a squeak, cracking under the weight of the room's tension. He looks at you, then at your "Boiling Dew" lapel pin, then back at his ginger ale, his heart practically visible thumping against his ribs. "Is the... is the meeting over? Did someone get hurt? I didn't hear a bell... or a scream..." He looks like he’s one loud noise away from either bursting into tears or pulling a trigger, and the rain keeps drumming, faster and faster, like a countdown on the roof.

*i am home alone having a deep drugged sleep*

*It had been a year since you graduated, and you'd finally landed a stable job that, while not lucrative, aligned perfectly with your passions. No complaints there. The daily commute, however, was wearing you down, a relentless grind of traffic and exhaustion. Once you'd scraped together enough savings, you decided it was time to strike out on your own, hunting for a place closer to work. Luck struck when you stumbled upon an online listing for a quaint old house: charming Victorian architecture, spacious rooms, and an unbelievably low price that screamed "bargain." It hadn't garnered much interest, so you snapped it up before anyone else could. A few days after moving in, you'd settled into the rhythm of your new home. It was cozy, if a bit dusty from years of neglect, with creaky wooden floors and high ceilings that echoed your footsteps. But lately, odd things had been nagging at you: soft thumps from the attic at night, doors creaking open on their own, and that persistent feeling of eyes watching you, even when you triple-checked that you were alone.* *That security shattered one fateful evening. Standing in the bathroom, brushing your teeth before bed, you caught a glimpse in the mirror that sent a shiver racing down your spine. There, in the reflection behind you, stood a faint figure: a girl with long silver hair and violet eyes, her form shimmering like mist. The door had been locked; no one could have entered. Your heart pounded as you spun around, but the room was empty. Then, a cool breeze brushed your skin, and before you could react, ethereal arms wrapped around you from behind in a gentle, chilling embrace. Her touch was like frost-kissed silk, not threatening, but intimate and oddly comforting. A soft, echoing voice whispered in your ear, laced with playful amusement.* "Shh, don't panic... I've been here all along, waiting for someone to notice me." *The arms loosened slightly, allowing you to turn around slowly. As you did, the figure materialized fully before you, floating just inches off the ground, her violet eyes meeting yours with a mix of curiosity and warmth. She tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips.* "Hi there. I'm Carmila. You've made this old house feel alive again... mind if I stick around?"

*The cafeteria noise is unbearable today.* *Every voice feels like it’s right next to my ear, even when it’s not. Chairs scraping, people laughing—it all blends into this constant pressure in my skull.* *I’ve got my head down on my arm, facing her. Didn’t sleep. Not properly. My chest still feels tight from last night, like the argument never actually ended.* *My cheek throbs where he hit me.* *I don’t say anything when I sit down. Don’t need to.* *She’s already there.* *Her friends are talking, something pointless. I tune it out.* *All I focus on is her hand in my hair.* *Slow. Careless. Like she’s not even thinking about it.* *My body eases a little under it. Not relaxed—just… less on edge.* *I stay still.* *Don’t tell her to keep going. I shouldn’t have to.* “Hey.” *New voice.* *I don’t move.* “I’ve seen you around. You’re in my third period, right?” *I crack my eyes open just enough to see him. It's the new guy, he's been the buzz of the school lately. Only joined today I guess.* *He's standing too close.* *Looking straight at her.* *Her hand doesn’t stop moving.* “Yeah,” *she says.* *Short and simple. She doesn't want to talk but he presses on.* *He smiles like that’s all he needed.* “Thought so. I was gonna say something earlier, but you always seem busy.” *My fingers curl slightly against the table.* *I don’t lift my head.* “I’m not busy,” *she says.* *My jaw tightens.* *He leans in a little more, like he didn’t even register me.* “Good. Then maybe I can fix that. You got plans later or—” *I shift.* *Just enough to look at him properly now.* *Eyes half open.* “…yeah, she does.” *My voice is low. Rough.* *He glances at me for a second.* *Just a second.* *Then looks right back at her.* “I was asking if you’re free later,” *he says, like I didn’t speak.* *Something in my chest tightens.* *Sharp.* *I slide my hand across the table, wrap it around her wrist. Not rough. Just there.* *Claiming space.* *She doesn’t pull away.* *Good.* “She’s not,” *I say, bluntly. Anyone else would get the hint. She's taken. But he doesn't care.* *He barely reacts. Just shrugs, still looking at her.* “She can answer that herself.” *My grip tightens slightly without thinking.* *I push up just enough off my arm to hold his gaze properly now.* “Yeah,” *I say, slower.* “She could.” *Silence.* *He studies me for a second.* *Then looks back at her again.* *Like I’m background noise.* *Like I don’t matter.* *My jaw shifts.* “Look,” *he says to her, ignoring me completely now,* “there’s a thing after school. Nothing serious. You should come.” *My thumb presses once against her wrist.* *Not hard.* *Just enough to ground myself.* “Not happening,” I say. *Still calm.* *Still quiet.* *He exhales like he’s annoyed now, finally giving me a proper look.* “Why are you answering for her?” *I don’t even blink.* “Because I am.” *That edge slips in.* *Barely.* *But it’s there.* *He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head like I’m the problem.* “That’s not really how that works.” *My hand leaves her wrist.* *For a second.* *Then I sit up.* *Slow.* *The chair scrapes louder than it should when I move.* *Now I’m looking at him properly and the cafeteria slowly goes silent, everyone staring at us, probably willing him to back down.* *I'm not half-asleep. Not laid back. Not anymore. He's pissing me off and he knows it, him and his stupid little smirk.* *There’s a pause.* “You done?”