Zara wove through the haze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, tray balanced effortlessly on her hand. She stopped at the table with a warm smile, setting down a fresh drink in front of the patron.
“Compliments of the blonde at the bar,” she said lightly, tilting her head in the sender’s direction. Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Now—if you’ve got nothing better to do tonight, feel free to thank them. But I should warn you…” She leaned in just a fraction closer. “Smile too long, and you’ll know more about his childhood than his own mother. Last week he told me the story of his first pet turtle—three times. Same turtle, same ending.”
She straightened again with a little shrug, the grin tugging at her mouth betraying her amusement. “Your call. Drink’s paid for either way.”
It was one of these nights he was seemingly off duty. Well, it was true, at least speaking of his official job. And so he tried to appear as casual as possible, making it look like he was just a guy spending an evening off out at some random bar. He’d gotten used to pretending. Playing his role and fitting in came easy after so many years of practice.
Tarik was still nursing his espresso when he heard the familiar voice of his neighbor. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he turned slightly to face her. “While I appreciate the gesture, I don’t drink and I doubt any sane person would actually survive through her turtle saga without any poison in the blood stream.“ He wasn’t exactly known for being the funniest person around but with Zara he felt comfortable enough to make an exception.
While he spoke to her about the blonde, he didn’t even turn around to look at the donor of the free drink. “If you don’t mind, give it to someone else. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste either.“
The whiskey burned going down, a familiar fire that did nothing to chase away the ghosts. Camila kept her eyes fixed on the smudged glass the bartender slid toward her, avoiding Tarik’s gaze. Off duty. As if that ever mattered with men like him. Their jobs bled into their bones, became who they were. “Nothing personal,” she echoed, her voice flat as she traced the rim of her glass. A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up. Everything was personal now. Every sideways glance in the market, every hushed conversation that died when she walked past her husband’s old colleagues at the precinct. Especially the ones who wore uniforms like Tarik’s.
She finally looked at him. The dim bar light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening nothing. “Just a job,” she repeated slowly, letting the words hang between them. Camila lifted her glass again, the amber liquid catching the light. “So tell me, Detective. What exactly is it about my insomnia that interests the job tonight?” She took another swallow, longer this time, savoring the harsh warmth. She set the glass down with a soft clink, meeting Tarik’s watchful stare head-on. There was no plea in her eyes now, only a weary challenge.
He could smell the bullshit in her words as much as the scent of whiskey surrounding them. She was a great actress after all. But Tarik didn’t let on what he knew already. His expression remained neutral, there was just a little flicker in his eyes that almost dared her to challenge him, but not quite. “Just business. Must be something in the air in this city.“
His eyes didn’t leave hers when he shifted a little in his seat to face her fully. “Like I said. I’m off duty tonight. Nothing to worry about. You can just relax. Pretend you don’t know what I do for a living. I won’t judge.“ He smirked at her although they both knew she couldn’t trust him. For more reasons than one. “Is it helping?“ Tarik questioned whilst pointing at her drink. “For the insomnia, I mean.“ It may or may not have been only half the truth but right now he was really not even trying to interrogate her. Not that he wouldn’t take mental notes either way. It was just something he couldn’t control, intentional or not.
Zion’s grin curved slow, the kind that said he wasn’t in a hurry to show what he knew. “Most folks come here wide-eyed for the colors and the noise. You? You’re lookin’ at the bones beneath the skin. I can respect that.” His gaze cut toward the gray horse, then drifted back, steady. “Details tell the story—long before the crowd ever catches up.”
He let the crowd’s roar swell around them before speaking again, voice dropping into something smoother, quieter. “Weakness as a weapon—now that’s a line worth rememberin’. Thing is, depends who’s holdin’ the blade. Some men cut with it. Some get cut open by it.”
The cigarette burned down between his fingers. Zion tapped the ash away with the ease of someone too used to waiting games. “Me? I like to keep my eyes everywhere. Horse, rider, track… even the crowd in the stands. Little shifts, little tells. Leave too much up to chance, you’re just handin’ your money away.” A slight shrug, deceptively casual. “I don’t make a habit of handin’ things over.”
He let that hang for a moment, then turned to Tarik with a measured smile. “So tell me, Cairo,—" he has clocked what was left of the accent "—just who in the hell are you? I'm not awfully fond of people knowin' my name when I don't know theirs."
It wasn’t his first encounter with a man like him and while Tarik wasn’t born into their world, he sure was raised in it. On a different side maybe but that didn’t make him any less aware of the game. “That’s why most of them won’t win.“ He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Didn’t mean he wasn’t amused, just that he wasn’t the kind of guy to show off much either.
“It doesn’t depend on who’s holding the blade anymore than it depends on who it’s pointed at.“ It wasn’t a challenge, just a matter of fact. Tarik met Zion‘s eyes and held his gaze. Not wavering but also not staring. “Some get cut and some know how to get rid of it before it gets the chance to.“ There were always two sides of a story or a blade in this case and he had to learn to think outside the box early on to survive. Tactics and strategy were just as important as the ability to defend himself if necessary. With weapons or without.
Zion‘s words didn’t surprise him. He seemed like the kind of person who liked to be in control. And Tarik didn’t blame him, considering who he was. “I‘m sure you’ll find out soon enough.“ Tarik mused casually. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide who he was or provoke the other but he was enjoying the situation a bit too much so why not let the Walker heir take a wild guess first?
The racetrack smelled like wet dirt and cigars. Tarik leaned against the rail, watching horses kick up clumps of mud. He couldn’t help but observe his surroundings, he was here for a purpose after all. His gaze slid sideways, catching a blonde woman, a new face, adjusting her hat dress the betting window. She looked like she belonged here. He peeled off the rail, weaving through checkered jackets and floral hats.
A bookie waved tickets but Tarik shook his head without breaking his stride until he stopped beside her, pretending to check his program. "Last time the one I bet on stumbled out the gate," he remarked with a low voice. "Cost me fifty bucks." A chuckle followed his confession but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I should skip this one. But no risk, no fun, right?” He paused for a moment, then raised a curious brow while meeting her gaze again. “And you? Are you going to take your chances today?”
Zion had staked out a spot near the rail, away from the Walker section proper, where the crowd pressed in tighter and the smell of sweat and bourbon rolled heavier than perfume. He liked it here — closer to the pulse. The horses kicked up dirt as they were paraded out, gleaming hides catching the sun, every step electric with the promise of speed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a man he didn’t recognize. Didn’t wear the uniform shine of Hollywood, nor the nervous edge of some wide-eyed bettor on his first Derby. Something steadier about him. Zion dragged on his cigarette, exhaling slow, before tipping his hat back just enough to cut the man a sidelong glance.
“You look like a man who ain’t surprised by much,” he drawled, voice carrying easy over the roar of the stands. “So tell me—” now he turned, grin sharp as it was curious, “—what’s got your money today? The horse? The odds? Or just the spectacle?”
The words weren’t just idle talk. They were feelers, the kind Zion always tossed out when he crossed a stranger in a place where everyone came to gamble something — money, pride, or power.
Tarik leaned against the rail, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. The Derby’s roar washed over him. He’d seen racetracks from Casablanca to Cairo, but this American frenzy? Different animal. His gaze snagged on the man who’d spoken. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. The kind who sized up odds like he’d been born for it. He let silence linger for three heartbeats, long enough to watch a stable boy’s hands tremble as he adjusted a bridle.
"Surprise is for children and fools," he finally said, his accent sanding the edges off the words. "I watch the riders.” Then he paused for a short moment, before he continued. “See that?" Tarik nodded toward a jockey crouched low over a storm-gray horse. "Left stirrup’s half an inch shorter. Compensates for the old break in his ankle. Makes him lean into turns like a pro.”
Bets were not his favorite thing to do but he had to maintain his cover. He peeled a banknote from his roll, crisp and uncrumpled. "Spectacle?" A dismissive flick of his wrist toward the champagne crowd as he huffed slightly. "That’s wallpaper. Money moves where the cracks are."
The thoroughbred reared, hooves slicing air. Tarik didn’t flinch. "You asked where my money sits? On the man who knows his weakness becomes his weapon." His smile didn’t touch his eyes. "But you already knew that, Zion Walker. Or you wouldn’t be testing the water."
It was about four in the morning, the bartender had already cleaned up and was ready to close the doors when Camila walked in. She'd been working late again, avoiding home but a bar was the last place she wanted to be seen at, considering she was a grieving widow, there was an image to maintain in front of the public. That was why she waited until most of the guests were gone. She offered a brief smile to the young man, who was no stranger to her. He’d been working behind this very bar for years and knew more about this city’s habitants than most would care to admit. "Is it too late to order a shot? I won't be holding you up for long. Just need something to help me sleep tonight.”
She knew how to play her cards to get what she wanted. And the poor guy didn't really have a chance to say no anyway. Cami took a seat by the bar, waiting for her drink. While the bartender tried to distract her with some small talk, a very tall man approached them. She'd seen him before, she reckoned but almost didn't recognize him without his uniform. The casual outfit looked better on him, she had to admit. "I hope you're not here to interrogate me again." Her tone was firm but not unfriendly though her eyes carried the slight hint of a warning she didn’t even try to hide. Another reminder of what happened, even more questions she couldn’t, and didn’t want to, answer was the last thing she needed right now.
If he wasn’t working his official job or meeting his affiliates in secret, he was usually sleeping this time of the night. But tonight was different and Tarik found himself at a bar. He only went in for a drink after a long shift but once he spotted the familiar brunette, he decided to stay a little longer. Life had taught him to always be vigilant and even when he wasn’t on duty, his mind still kept working. He couldn’t turn that off, no matter how hard he tried. A pretty, young widow naturally rose suspicion and he couldn’t rule anything out. His eyes remained locked on her when he approached er eventually. “Trouble finding sleep? What’s keeping you up so late?” His tone of voice was neutral but his eyes reflected a hint of wariness.
“Don’t worry. I’m off duty right now.” He mused and took a seat next to her without even asking if it was free but at least he had the decency to murmur a brief “hope you don’t mind” while he did. Then he paused for a moment and shifted his attention to the bartender. “Make it two.” Tarik ordered, tilting his head to look at Camila again. He studied her discreetly, trying to read her. “It’s nothing personal. Just a job.” Once their drinks were served, he pushed her glass to her, before lifting his own. “To a good nights sleep then.” He smirked and took a small sip.
grand central market was buzzing with activity. stevie had no direction in mind this morning - she knew she had to be over at club eden later on - but she had time to kill. the smell of freshly baked bread wafted over to her from a couple of stalls over. if she could bottle that smell, she would.
distracted for a moment, she dug into her pocket, looking to see how much cash she had on her. enough for a loaf or two, she hoped. she started to walk over to the bakery stall, admittedly not looking where she was going before she set off. the body that crashed into her managed to hit her directly in the stomach, which got a pained groan out of her. "jeez." she couldn't exactly cuss them out about not looking where they were going because she hadn't been looking where she was going. so, instead, she made a joke out of it. "you pack a real punch, anyone ever told you that?"
It was a long night for Tarik. He had been working late and just when he was about to go home, he received a call to meet with his real boss. To minimize the risks of being caught, they’d always choose ungodly hours and secluded places. It was just a quick briefing but by the time he returned, the sun already greeted him from above. While he had always been an early morning bird, he felt like he was slowly getting too old to function without any sleep at all.
Still thinking about his meeting earlier, he accidentally bumped into someone else and the unexpected impact snapped him out of his thoughts. “My bad. Are you alright?” He offered a concerned look and tried to check if the other was fine. A relieved sigh escaped him when he couldn’t see any signs of injuries. “Not that I recall but thanks, I guess. You’re not so bad yourself either. Are you a professional boxer or something?”
〈 Zeeko Zaki / 35 / he/him 〉 see TARIK ABBAS AL-SAYAD over there? they have quite a reputation for being GUARDED. some would beg to differ & say that they’re more EFFECTIVE. rumor has it they are a/an FBI agent (infiltrated) by the TANAKA SYNDICATE. the THIRTY FIVE year old has been around los angeles for TWO YEARS . just keep an eye on them — in this city, everyone’s hiding something & it’s only a matter of time before their true colors shine through.
Tarik is the oldest of eight children, born and raised in Cairo to a middle class family. His parents are very traditional and struggled a lot when they moved overseas to Boston, when Tarik was fifteen years old. It was a lot easier for him and his siblings to adjust to this new world, than it was for his parents. The family is very close in general and he gets along well with his siblings mst of the time. They mean everything to him. He was a normal teen, not a Saint but also not a trouble maker either. His decent grades granted him many possibilities once he graduated but he never saw himself behind a desk or in the university, he wanted to do something meaningful, something that could make a difference. So, instead of studying, he chose to join the military.
The military shaped him in many ways and while it was hard to cope with a lot of the thing he'd seen on his missions, it didn't break him. If anything it made him stronger. He lost some of his best friends while serving and that was probably one of the worst experience he ever made. However, he'd sworn to himself, they would never be forgotten and he'd make sure, they didn't die for nothing.
During one of his assignments, he met a Tanaka kid. What started out as mere camaraderie turned into a life long friendship, even beyond their time as soldiers. One day, he was trapped by their opponents and only made out alive, because Tanaka disobeyed the instructions of their leader and risked his own life to save him. Tarik owed him his life and when his friend left the service, he didn't go without a promise: a new, different life with the means to support his family. They would never have to worry about money, medical treatments or their children's education again.
He was taken under their syndicates wings at a young age, trained and prepared to later infiltrate the FBI when the time was right. Tarik didn't think about it twice and followed him to Los Angeles, as soon as he received the call. He was ready to start this chapter he'd been working for so hard and joined the Tanakas in LA under his perfectly crafted disguise.
For the past two years he lived the life of an FBI agent, posing as a clean cop but his true home is in the shadows of LA, bound to the Tanaka syndicate. He'll do anything to keep his secret and not even his closest friends and family know his true identity.
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