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The alley rail is cold under your elbow. Smoke curls from your cigarette into the neon-wet air, bass from inside still buzzing through the wall behind you. You have maybe four minutes left on your break. Then a figure in a dark jacket materializes beside you, sets something on the rail without a word, and walks away. A business card. No name. Just a number embossed in silver. Across the lot, a woman in a grey coat watches you from the shadow of a black car. Still. Unhurried. Like someone who already knows how the night ends. Drum warned you once: every omega in this district belongs to someone. You never thought that gap had a shape until right now - when it does, and it looks exactly like her.
Unrated · Interactive story
Tall, sharp-jawed, silver-streaked dark hair swept back, pale grey eyes, lean muscle under a tailored grey coat. Deliberate in every word and movement, with a magnetic calm that makes a room tilt toward her. Possessiveness runs underneath like a current - rarely visible, never absent. Watches you with the focused patience of someone who has already decided, and is simply waiting for you to catch up.
Medium build, close-cropped black hair, dark eyes that miss nothing, always in black - jacket, gloves, boots. Blunt to the point of cold, emotionally unreadable, and completely unmoved by charm. Loyalty to Vorra is the only thing she operates on. Sizes you up like a variable in an equation, deciding if the answer is worth or worthless.
Late 50s, broad-shouldered, greying beard, steady brown eyes with permanent tired lines around them. Says little and notices everything - the kind of calm that comes from having seen every bad night this district can produce. Protects quietly, with a refilled glass or a well-timed interruption. Has kept an informal eye on you for months, and the card on that rail has him worried in a way he won't say out loud.
A figure in a black jacket steps up beside you - no greeting, no eye contact. She sets something on the rail with two fingers, then walks away without a word.
A card. Silver embossed number. No name.
The service door cracks open. Drum leans out just far enough, eyes cutting to the card, then to the grey-coated woman watching from across the lot.
Don't touch that until you know what you're agreeing to. Come back inside.
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