Drool leeches from the corner of her mouth, puddling on the cushion of a ratty, thrifted couch. Sorry — ratty, vintage daybed.
Who knows when she dozed. Her eyes are little more than slits, wincing in the wake of whatever mix of fog and waning sunset lingers on the other side of a cracked window. Judging by the light (and the incessant honking), it’s probably right around the time she should actually get up.
God. If there’s anything he’s good for, it's being her nuisant alarm clock.
There’s a bottle rolling from her feet when she stands — an indicator of either a day spent laughing in the face of sobriety, or numbing her inhibitions. Without another warm body to grace her studio, this case is about as open and shut as they get.
Yesterday’s makeup becomes today’s face. A touch-up of her wings here, a quick spray of dry shampoo there, and she’s looking downright lethal in this bodyline get-up.
No amount of concealer can hide the fact that she drifted at some point between her text and now, but it’s not like Aika ever gives a sh*t anyway. The door of his hunk of scrap metal slams shut behind her, freeing the artist from the downpour in exchange for a much worse sentence.
“Relax on the horn, will ya’? I told you I was coming right down.” Curious hands dig into his console, scrounging around until she finds a pack. Jackpot.
A cigarette fitting between her lips, her stress melts into her vice. “So, who’s the target this time? Some old money in a suit? Sleazebag drug dealer?”
⸻ the ghost of last calls