p r o d i g a l r u i n

[dilanseyfi]

Is that DILAN SEYFI? I heard the THIRTY TWO year old works as a FAILED ARTIST/APPRAISER AT THE HERITAGE VAULT. Which makes sense, seeing how they are CREATIVE, but can also be IMPRACTICAL. Do they know what’s going on in the city? I heard they are a CLEAN CIVILIAN.

S T A T S

FULL NAME: Dilan Seyfi NICKNAME(S): N/A OCCUPATION: Appraiser at The Heritage Vault

GENDER: Cis Woman PRONOUNS: She/Her NATIONALITY: Turkish ETHNICITY: Turkish

BIRTH PLACE: Izmir, Turkey HOMETOWN: Izmir, Turkey SOCIAL CLASS:  Currently lower-middle class EDUCATION LEVEL: College graduate (BFA) FATHER:  Ahmet Seyfi MOTHER: Cemre Seyfi SIBLING(S): tbd CHILDREN: 0 PET(S): N/A

B I O G R A P H Y

Dilan Seyfi had always been destined for greatness—or at least, that’s what everyone told her. A child prodigy, her paintings were mesmerizing from the moment she could hold a brush. She wasn’t just good—she was exceptional. The kind of exceptional that made teachers beam with pride and made her parents boast to anyone who would listen. So when she was accepted into Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University, it wasn’t a surprise. It was expected.

But school didn’t shape her the way she had hoped. If anything, it dulled the spark. The praise that had once fueled her felt routine, and while her classmates struggled to find their style, she had already mastered hers. She left with a degree but no real sense of growth. That didn’t matter, though—her paintings spoke for themselves. Europe wanted her. Galleries in Paris, Berlin, and Milan clamored for her work. She was young, brilliant, untouchable. And then came the calls from New York and L.A. It felt inevitable. Of course, she was going to conquer the U.S. She was too big to fail.

But she did.

American audiences didn’t see what the Europeans had seen in her work. Her first few exhibitions barely made a ripple. Collectors weren’t interested. The buzz died down, and suddenly, she was scrambling—pouring her own money into shows that no one came to, chasing an audience that wasn’t looking for her. She told herself it was just a rough patch. Just one more show. Just one more loan.

Going home wasn’t an option. Back home, her family still spoke of her like she was a legend. Their little prodigy. The one who made it. She couldn’t stand the thought of facing them, of hearing the hushed whispers and seeing the disappointment in their eyes. She would rather scrape by in L.A. than go back and admit she wasn’t who they thought she was.

And so now, she’s here—an assistant at the Royal Bidding House, surrounded by the art world but utterly disconnected from it. The job requires a degree, but she does nothing that needs one. She’s a glorified paper-pusher, fetching coffee and organizing auctions for people who barely notice her. She hates every second of it, but it’s better than facing the truth. Better than going home.

So she keeps digging the hole deeper, knowing that eventually, someone’s going to figure out she's not what she says she is. But she can’t stop. Because the moment she stops, the moment she admits this is over, she’s nothing. And Dilan Seyfi has spent her entire life being someone.

H E A D C A N N O N S:

Dilan still paints, but only in secret—small canvases tucked away in her tiny apartment, unfinished because finishing them would mean admitting she still cares.

She tells herself she’s just waiting for the right moment to make a comeback, but deep down, she knows she doesn’t believe in her own talent anymore.

Despite everything, she still dresses like she belongs in the art world—statement pieces, bold colors, the kind of effortless style that makes her look more successful than she is.

She hates the wealthy collectors who parade through the Royal Bidding House, but she envies them too—how easily they buy the kind of life she spent years bleeding for.

No matter how bad things get, she refuses to take a flight home, because the idea of walking through the airport in Istanbul with nothing to show for herself is more terrifying than anything else.

W A N T E D C O N N E C T I O N S H E R E

[waywardreveries]

melisa pamuk via instagram

[alixharrigan]

The door had barely finished chiming before Alix's gaze sweept over the diner in its entirety, taking in how the lights buzzed and the air smelled like scorched coffee, but specifically the voice of the woman to her side who looked like she belonged here and nowhere simultaneously. She'd caught her mid-step, soon turning with one brow arched. "Disappointment and I have become closely acquainted, if you know what I mean," she replied nonchalantly, and something told her the other would know exactly what she meant. Alix's eyes caught sight of the sketchbook almost immediately and lingered momentarily before shifting back up to the woman. "Ever tried the cheesecake?" Because one review wouldn't have her entirely writing off this place. Though she could blame it on the fact she hadn't found anywhere else nearby open late enough while she killed time prior to her meeting.

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t look up right away, just dragged the tip of her pencil down the center of a half-formed jawline, as if it were the one part she hadn’t quite made up her mind about yet. “If I had a dollar for every time someone’s said that to me in here,” she murmured, “I could probably buy this place. Or at least a decent espresso machine.” Only then did she glance up, letting her gaze flick over the woman with the arched brow and the well-placed timing. She didn’t recognize her—but that didn’t mean much. The diner drew all kinds after midnight: ghosts, drifters, people in between things. Dilan liked them better than the ones who knew exactly where they were going.

“The cheesecake’s not as bad as the lemon meringue, but it tastes like regret if you’ve had real dessert recently.” She shrugged a shoulder, the motion languid. “Still, it’s soft enough to qualify as comfort food, if that’s what you’re looking for.” She closed the sketchbook partway, careful not to smudge the charcoal, then nodded toward the open booth across from her. “Feel free to sit, if you’re not allergic to mediocre coffee and unsolicited commentary.”

[spliinters]

even if she hadn't attended herself, seneca was well aware of the event that the other was referencing. some of her clients had been around during everything that went down, and she'd even been assigned to check in on the barone family once cami was taken to the hospital. indirect involvement had made her wonder : what would she have done if she'd been there ?

" you need to lock your wrist. " she jutted her chin towards dilan's grip on the handgun, finding it easier to look at her hands than at her face. taking a few tentative steps closer, she leaned to peer down range towards her paper target. " and uh, " she pushed a piece of hair behind her ear, " feel free to tell me to fuck off, cause i will, but see how you keep shooting to the right of the target ? it's because of how your holding the gun. "

something resembling a nervous laugh pulled from her throat, and seneca looked down at her feet, suddenly overwhelmed with sheepishness. she knew deep down that she was absolutely crossing a boundary of some sort by acting as though she knew better. even if she did, there was still a palpable rift between the two, and she'd been a major catalyst for it. she had been the one to pull the trigger on their breakup, after all. " i can go. "

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t move at first. Her grip stayed where it was, wrist loose, eyes still on the target even after Seneca leaned in. The last time someone had leaned in like that, it hadn’t been to fix her form—it had been to kiss her in the middle of a dim stairwell after too much wine and not enough clarity.

“Lock your wrist,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. Then, slowly, she adjusted her grip. Clicked the safety on. Rested the gun on the table between them.

Seneca’s nervous laugh dragged Dilan’s gaze back toward her. She looked different in this kind of lighting. Sharper. Or maybe that was just time. “I didn’t say that,” she answered, voice even. “Not that you’ve ever really needed me to.” She didn’t smile, but there wasn’t anger in her expression either. Not anymore. Just that tired sort of knowing that settles into your bones when someone already walked away once.

“You’re right, by the way. About the shooting.” A beat. “Still figuring out what to do with my aim.” She looked back at the target, then offered the smallest tilt of her head toward the bench beside her. “No, you can stay. After all, this is more your territory than mine." she finished, nodding towards Seneca's own target, riddled with well aimed holes. It was as close to an invitation as she could manage.

[cfrecklcss]

Whether she had meant it to be a snarky remark or a light-hearted tease, Eren took it as the latter. His lips curving into a wider smirk, touching his eyes. He had no intention of defending his preferences or the cheap diner-style frosting any further and one look at her was enough to figure she was way past the topic, too.

He watched the shift in her posture with slight amusement. Her words becoming the perfect addition. His expression chaning only once, after she'd mentioned her 'questionable decisions'. "You know, media had created such false idea of people like you." He mused, his voice thick with lingering amounts of tease. "People of art and culture." He clarified, followed by a pause. He swirled the fork between his fingers before slicing a piece from his pie, taking an extra moment to lick the frosting off. "You have no idea what you're missing on." Another bite and a barely audible 'mmm' hum later, Eren met her gaze. "I just like pie." It certainly couldn't beat all the sweet goods his mother made but it was a childhood relic he still cherished. A remnant of a much simpler life. "So what's your excuse? You like the cheap, chalk-like coffee? Or is drinking coffee past midnight one of your questionable decisions?"

[dilanseyfi]

“People like me?” Dilan echoed, brow lifting just enough to make it clear she’d caught the phrasing. Her nails clicked once against the side of her mug before she leaned forward, forearms on the table, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. “You mean the misunderstood, overly emotional artists who wear too much black and chain-smoke in alleyways after opening night? We’re an endangered species now.” She let the tease stretch between them before reaching for the sugar packet she hadn’t touched, turning it slowly between her fingers.

“Pie’s not on trial here. You like what you like.” A beat. “Even if what you like tastes like grocery store birthday cake that’s been left out in the sun.” Her smile twitched, just barely. “And I don’t really drink the coffee,” she added, finally tipping her head toward him. “I just order it so Agnes stops trying to get me to try the meatloaf special. She thinks artists don’t eat enough.”

A small sip from the coffee she clearly had no intention of finishing. "What about you? Is this your normal post-closing haunt? Or is it just coincidence you're gracing my night with your presence?"

[mesmcrize]

[aslandurmaz]

A flicker of something akin to reluctant amusement passed through his expression at in response to the stretch of her leg across the floor and her words. That was, until she said it— I was scared. A normal reaction to anyone that wasn't within the world that he saw daily. One which he'd grown within, and that had sharpened, beat, and conditioned to become imbedded into him.

"You were scared," he repeated, as if weighing the words on his tongue. Then, nodded slowly before, "just because you weren't hit directly, doesn't mean something didn't happen to you." There was no judgment, only rare compassion in his tone because witnessing would be enough for her.

He stood without another word and crossed to the counter, a natural tension lingering in his shoulders - not about Dilan's company but more so about what was left unknown about her and the pieces he had yet to place.

It's a thought that won't rest as he returned with a kettle of tea (better for her nerves than coffee, he thought) and two glasses, setting each down on the table between them, then took his seat opposite her. "Unless you'd prefer coffee. If you have any plans for staying up all night painting." In reference to their previous cafe interaction. He didn't know, though he just figured he'd offer the option.

[dilanseyfi]

She didn’t reach for the tea right away. Just looked at it for a moment—poured, still steaming, not sweetened or dressed up, but intentional. It was a gesture. One she didn’t know what to do with at first. “I wasn’t scared like that,” she said finally. Her voice had softened, but it wasn’t fragile—measured, maybe. “I wasn’t scared I’d get hurt. I was scared I didn’t understand what I was standing in the middle of.” She wasn’t someone who liked being left out of the bigger picture. Chaos she could handle, so long as she knew what it cost. But the party had felt like a funhouse mirror: nothing where it should be, and shadows behind every reflection. She could still hear the glass breaking, see the look on Ayla’s face. The screaming had ended, but it hadn’t really stopped.

Fingers curled around the glass now, letting the heat settle into her hands before she took a sip. It helped, more than she expected. “And no,” she added, a quiet smile flickering at her lips. “No painting tonight. My muse only shows up when I’m being a little reckless.”

There was a beat of silence before she looked at him again, steady this time. “You’re surprisingly good at this whole being gentle thing. I didn’t expect that.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing—not unkind, just curious. "Now this seems like a silly question, considering how well you handled yourself. But were you? Scared?" The attack had seemingly come out of nowhere, and the not knowing why would have scared Dilan more than the actual violence. She wondered if he felt the same.

[charliewindsor]

Charlie tore his attention from the painting, eyes landing on the woman behind the counter, who had so rudely interjected herself into his conversation. Fucking hell, he knew an art snob when he saw one. "That something you usually do?" Charlie finally asked, glancing briefly toward the man beside him (as if to make sure this wasn't some sort of weird gotcha moment) before he focused back on her, whoever she was. "Jump into conversations you're not apart of with opinions nobody asked for?" His hand motioning between them as he spoke.

Truth be told, he was confused as to why she was even speaking for a painting that was ugly, in his opinion anyways. Not that he would voice that out loud, didn't want to be told how stupid he was for not seeing all the different brush strokes of Van Gogh or whatever made that fucking thing worth thousands of dollars. "Probably should keep those to yourself," he advised with a small shrug. "Least until someone actually asks."

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t look up at first. She finished the note she’d been writing—tight cursive in the corner of her page—before glancing over at the man like he’d interrupted a thought she’d already grown bored of. “Oh,” she said, dry and disinterested. “You mean like when someone walks into a museum, points at a piece, and starts loudly declaring their ignorance to anyone within earshot?”

She tilted her head, just a little, as if seeing him more clearly now. Like he was a canvas too, just not a particularly good one. “I figured if you were brave enough to offer your opinion without understanding what you were looking at, you were brave enough to hear someone else’s.” A pause. “But I can see now that was optimistic.”

Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. She wielded cool detachment like a knife, and her smile was the sort that didn’t bother reaching her eyes. Just a hint of sharp teeth. “Next time, try the natural history museum. Might be more your speed.”

[dispitcous-deactivated20250724]

Valentina wasn't entirely sure what to make of the woman's remark, but considering that she could have the world on a platter at any given time, she wasn't going to take offense to it. "That's a fair assumption, but trust me, if you grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth, a little disappointment is actually a blessing in disguise." Maybe that was just how she chose to look at it when she wanted to escape from the glitz and glamour of The Family's world, but she wouldn't call this place a total disaster.

Glancing at the sketchbook laid before the woman, she found her lips curling into a smile as she studied her work. She might not know much about being an artist or interpreting it herself, but she could admire someone else's creativity. "Then what are you here for? The lighting? Inspiration for your art? A distraction from something at home?" It was typical for her to pry into people's lives, but mostly because she wanted to hear what normal civilians with normal jobs got up to for a living. It was remarkable really, the contrast of their lives to her own, so she had to live vicariously through them every now and again. "Is this how you usually battle insomnia?"

As Agnes came over with her milkshake, she thanked the woman before taking a sip, the coldness a nice change from the burning of the tequila she'd been chugging down just before entering the dinner. As the woman asked her a question this time, Val shrugged nonchalantly. "I tend to stay out late so I needed to find the places that would be open so I could get a bite. It's also not owned by certain people, and sometimes, I just like finding a place where the employees get to know me for me, and not because of anyone else. A little anonymity is a breath of fresh air sometimes, you know?"

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan blinked slowly, pen still hovering just above the edge of her sketchbook as Valentina spoke. That voice had the ease of someone used to getting answers—but Dilan wasn’t in the habit of handing them over for free. “I’m not sure ‘blessing’ is the word I’d use,” she murmured, smirking faintly. “Disappointment’s only romantic when it’s hypothetical. Or French.”

Her gaze dropped as she turned a page in her sketchbook—half out of habit, half to break the eye contact that had started to feel a little too assessing. The question that followed earned a shrug from Dilan, eyes lifting again, this time thoughtful. “I came for bad coffee and better silence. But the lighting’s decent and you’re right—it does help with the insomnia. Some people drink chamomile tea. I come here and let the smell of fried oil and broken dreams tuck me in.” She didn’t smile at her own joke, but her voice carried the tease clearly enough.

It wasn’t until Valentina mentioned certain people that Dilan’s head tilted, just slightly—something in the phrasing catching on the edge of her understanding like a thread snagged on barbed wire. “‘Certain people,’” she repeated slowly. “That supposed to mean something to me, or is this one of those ‘if you know, you know’ situations?” She leaned forward then, elbows resting on the table, a little amused, a little wary. “Because unless you’re talking about Yelp elites or the city health department, I’m gonna need a bit more to go on.”

[haleyatwell]

MERYL STREEP as SUZANNE VALE POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE (1990) dir. Mike Nichols

[imanixkline]

There was always something satisfying about being recognised for exactly what you were. Or in Imani's case, exactly what she presented herself to be - smooth and sleek to hide the sharpness underneath. They heard her soft, sweet words and saw her dressed in silks and satins and thought her temperament matched. Missing the hunger and ambition that always lay rippling below the surface.

It was by her design, of course, keeping her cards and true nature close to her chest in some attempt to keep her one step ahead of those around her. Purposefully shrouding herself in honeyed words and soft platitudes, always so effortlessly personable.

That wasn't to say that this woman had read her entirely, it was far too soon for that, but she had at least correctly identified that she could be in the market for something a little more exclusive. "No but I don't think anyone's should. Seems like too much of a shame to limit yourself to what you already have." A mantra she lived by. More, there was always more.

Light hum of agreement was given, slight nod to show her approval at what had been put forward. "That sounds like an excellent plan. Where do you think we should start?" Brow arched elegantly, equal parts curious and challenge. "If you're half the matchmaker I think you'll be then I might just have to introduce you to some of my friends." An incentive, that if she got it right there'd be more business brought her way. There was no need to specify that there would be discretion, she thought that would be obvious enough.

[dilanseyfi]

“Dangerous offer,” Dilan said lightly, the faintest smirk curling at her mouth as she leaned her hip against the edge of the display. “I’ve been known to ruin people with good taste. They walk out thinking they’ll just browse, and then suddenly they’re on a first-name basis with a courier from Zurich.”

She set the iPad down gently on the velvet surface between them, the gallery’s secure catalogue already pulled up. Unlike the museum pieces around them, this screen whispered about what could be bought—if one knew where to ask. Dilan hadn’t left the Royal Bidding House empty-handed; she still had eyes in a few of the right places.

“If it’s refinement you want, I’d point you toward a lacquered Qianlong vanity screen—my guess is you’d appreciate the secret compartments.” A slow glance up, deliberate and dry. “But if we’re looking for something with more fire, there’s a myth-fragment mosaic set to hit private rotation in a week. Not exactly subtle, but then again…” Her brow arched, returning the unspoken challenge. “Neither are most women worth remembering.”

Fingertips tapped once, then paused. “Or we skip both and I go off-book. You tell me the last thing you bought that thrilled you, and I try to top it.” A pause, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Unless you’re one of those people who doesn’t let herself get thrilled.”

[cfrecklcss]

Though he was now given a chance to move among the more fortunate, some habits were hard to kill than others. Thrust into a world of crime masked with elegance and sophistication without even being given a say in it, Eren refused to give up all the little things that still linked him to the life he knew before it all. Little things like a slice of pie from the local diner, which tasted nothing like all the traditional goods his mother would make on holidays but still carried a nostalgic memory of careless childhood and a much simpler life. Cherry was his favourite kind but they seemed to be out of stock already, which left him with blueberry instead. Dark eyes following the familiar voice, he gave his order to the visibly overworked middle-aged woman behind the counter and made his way to the corner booth. "The frosting is the best part." He argued, his voice low and laced with undertones of mockery. "Didn't picture you as the late night diner girl."

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t look up right away, just swirled her spoon through what remained of the coffee—if you could call it that—and hummed like she was actually considering his frosting defense. “That explains everything,” she said finally, lifting her gaze to him with a sharp smile. “Only someone who likes diner frosting would willingly order the blueberry.”

She leaned back in the booth, crossing one leg over the other as if they were in a café in Istanbul and not somewhere with a sticky menu and a broken napkin dispenser. “And for the record, I’m not a ‘late night diner girl.’ I’m a woman of culture who makes questionable decisions after midnight and occasionally needs somewhere to sit with bad lighting and worse coffee to reevaluate them.”

She tilted her head, studying him a moment with a vaguely amused squint. “Didn’t picture you as the sentimental type. That slice of pie some kind of childhood relic or are you just slowly giving up like the rest of us?”

[aylaxbinici]

Ayla had been out with some friends and was a few shots and drinks in the night. But they'd been celebrating, a birthday came only once a year of course. But after they all had stumbled out of the last bar giggling and unsteady on heels, they all had gotten into their respective ubers to head home. On the way home though, she checked Dilan's location, fully expecting her roommate to be at their shared apartment. Instead, she was shocked to see her out at a diner and not with a name she recognized as a late night haunt.

Curious, and not really wanting to go home alone, she canceled her ride and instead entered a new address to the diner, slipping the driver some cash to settle any complaints and to agree to hit that accept button. Pushing into the diner, Ayla's eyes roamed over the lack of customers before it landed squarely on the lit up dessert case and the hunger that haunted every drunk person made those pies look extremely appetizing. But it was the sound of her roommate's voice that made her turn and abandon the pies. "I'm hungry, but maybe not that hungry." Ayla laughed.

Stumbling over on her heels, she dropped into the booth opposite Dilan and slid in across the sticky vinyl. "What are you doing here?" She asked, shooting her friend and roommate a smile as she reached for one of the yet again sticky menus behind the napkins. "I am actually hungry though, you want anything?"

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t even need to turn around to know who the voice belonged to—the half-dragged vowels and too-loud laugh were distinct. Still, she lifted her eyes with the resigned amusement of someone caught mid-bad decision by someone who knew all the other ones, too.

“You canceled your ride, didn’t you?” she said instead of hello, one brow raised, her tone dry but not unkind. “God forbid you go home to an empty apartment and let me wallow in peace.” Still, she didn’t move as Ayla slid into the booth, only gave a small, crooked smile as if to say fine, stay then, before taking another sip of her bitter coffee. At the mention of food, she glanced toward the counter like maybe something edible would magically appear. It didn’t.

“I’d tell you to avoid the pie, but apparently that’s controversial now.” Her tone lightened a touch, and she tapped her fingers along the ceramic mug. “I was thinking of heading back soon, but… if you’re ordering, I’ll split fries.” It may have been too late for dinner, but it was always time for girl dinner in her heart.

She leaned back, observing her for a moment, the gloss of her eyes, the glitter still clinging to her collarbone. “You look like you’ve had more fun than me tonight. Celebrating anything specific or are you just celebrating the general chaos of existence again?”

[waywardreveries]

melisa pamuk via instagram

[spliinters]

it's the sound of her own name that tips her off — the way she exhaled it so second-nature, as if the syllables belonged in her mouth. that was always the problem with dilan. the cadence of her voice felt familiar. felt not quite like a home, but a place she could've built one in one day, if seneca had only given their relationship the time to grow. admittedly, her ex was the last person she'd expected to be in a place like this, but the surprise run in had her feeling soft and vulnerable. flinching. the other's confession of jumpiness spiked something deep inside her: a protective instinct. " i've been keeping myself busy. " the lowered timbre of her voice began to ache. the brunette placed the rifle down on the shooting table, aligning it with the bench rest, before diving towards the loose shell. upon standing up straight again, she realized how much the space between them had diminished. proximity shocked her system much more than the recoil of any firearm. from here she could truly observe her countenance, the curve of her jawline, the slightly downturned arc of her mouth. places she'd once peppered her own lips against. " so, " seneca cleared her throat, " it's like exposure therapy, then ? " oaken eyes inspect the way dilan holds the weapon, entangled in finger she'd previously seen as so delicate. " you look powerful with a gun in your hand. "

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t move when Seneca stepped closer. If anything, she tilted her chin up slightly, not in defiance but instinct—a way of bracing against the memory blooming in her chest like something unwelcome but not unfamiliar. She didn’t pull away from the proximity. But she didn’t lean in either. There was still a sharp line inside her that remembered how things had ended.

Her fingers adjusted on the grip, not quite trembling, but with the kind of care that betrayed her newness. "Maybe," she said quietly, glancing at the rifle before her eyes returned to Seneca. "Or maybe it’s just a good idea. I’ve survived a few too many parties lately. Figured I should stop relying on charm and luck."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "Powerful’s a bit generous. Right now I’m just hoping I don’t break my shoulder trying to aim this thing."

But she didn’t move away. Not yet. Her voice dropped slightly, not for effect, but because there was something in Seneca’s expression that made her tread softer, even now. "Damn, you always had a habit of showing up when I’m just getting good at forgetting you."

[dispitcous-deactivated20250724]

Stumbling into the diner, Valentina wasn't the least bit surprised that it was pretty dead at this hour. She only stopped by when she'd been drinking, seeking the greasy, familiar food and the employees, who always seemed to be a little nosy but always pleasant. Usually. Luckily it never bothered her, since she didn't come here sober and could usually yap about anything, simply enjoying the company of people who weren't gang affiliated — as far as she knew, anyway. Glancing at the spread of pie on display, she was sure that she'd puke up her guts if she didn't get something on her belly soon and was about to call out for her favorite waitress when she was interrupted by another patron speaking. Turning her head to set eyes on the woman, she smiled in appreciation of her warning. It faded, however, when the stranger added onto her previous statement. "Do I look like I enjoy disappointment?" She questioned.

The door leading to and from the kitchen opened up a moment later, and she whipped her head back around to see her favorite late night employee. "Evening, Agnes. You know what I'm here for." She greeted, and the older blonde lady just nodded before going back into the kitchen, and Val shrugged nonchalantly as she made her way over to the woman's table. "I steer clear of the pie anyway, but thanks for tasting it so I never have to." She joked, sliding into the seat across from the other brunette. "Go for the milkshake next time. One guaranteed thing they can't screw up. I could tell you what to order and how to ask Agnes for it, but I don't think I've ever seen you in here during any of my late night stops. Please tell me this isn't one of those food tour things where you're just making your way through the city trying out everything? if that's the case, you're the one who likes to be disappointed, and wasting your money. The Yelp and TikTok reviews can save you a fortune, you know?"

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan blinked once, then let her eyes drag upward from the sketch she’d been working on—a mostly abstract composition, some furious graphite lines and curved shapes still forming—until they landed on the woman now seated across from her. A beat passed, then a smile pulled at her mouth. Not a full one. Just the corner. Just enough.

"You absolutely look like you enjoy disappointment," she said flatly, reaching for her coffee with the kind of slow, deliberate motion reserved for early mornings or long nights. “Or at least like someone who flirts with it recreationally.”

She took a sip, grimaced. Let the silence hang long enough to suggest she might leave it at that. But she didn’t. “I’ll take your milkshake recommendation under advisement, but I’m not here for the cuisine.” A glance at Agnes’s swinging kitchen door. “God forbid.” Another sip. Still bitter. Still terrible. “I’m not on a food tour, don’t worry. I live nearby. And I'm just… sampling my options for insomnia and regrettable decisions. This place has good lighting and terrible pie. You wouldn’t believe how rare that combo is.”

Her pen tapped once against the side of her sketchbook before she tilted her head at Valentina, gaze sharp but not unkind. “But you obviously know your way around. How did you find this gem of a place?"

[serkanxtufekci]

"Hey." he started, almost in a scolding tone as she teased him about his lack of ability to make Turkish coffee taste good. He'd concluded a long time ago that she just had a preference for coffee that was entirely different from his. "There's nothing wrong with the way I make coffee, you take it back." Though his lips turned into a smirk, indicating he wasn't at all actually offended. She had a point he was sure. "And that gallery in Paris is one of the best ones, honestly." he said with a shrug, talking about an actual gallery where as he was sure she was probably being sarcastic. Sometimes sarcasm didn't hit Serkan the way that it should have; he could be a little slow to pick up on it sometimes. A small smile as he looked back at her, nodding. "You can if you want, but just know you'd like not get the answer you wanted." he shrugged. "Ruins the mystery for sure." If there was anything that Serkan liked when it came to life, the mysterious side of him was definitely part of it. Though her last comment made him chuckle, nodding in her direction. "Boring's a real fast way to get what you need to know figured out." he nodded. "But I'm definitely not boring." Eyes focused on what she was currently asking his help with and he nodded, looking at her for a moment and then ahead again. He wasn't sure what he'd be saying about it was impressive, but at the very least he'd be able to at least give an opinion and that was more than some people. Besides, the art he was currently staring at. "Oh this one's a beauty." he stated. "How long have you had it?"

[dilanseyfi]

Dilan didn’t look at him right away, just gave a small shake of her head, the kind someone might offer after watching a child insist the sky was green. "Your coffee tastes like regret and overconfidence, Serkan. I won’t lie to you just to preserve your pride." But she was smiling—at least with her eyes. The corners of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh, and failing just enough to make it charming.

"As for Paris…" she drawled, turning slightly to face him now, one shoulder leaned lazily against the wall, "if you’re talking about Galerie Lelong, then sure. But if you're trying to convince me that pop-up in Montmartre where we nearly got mugged was a real gallery, I’m calling bullshit"

His defense of mystery got a soft snort out of her, more amused than dismissive. "You say mystery like it’s seductive. But it just makes me assume you're hiding bodies in the garden. And not even interesting bodies. Just like…tax accountants or something."

She followed his gaze to the piece in front of them and crossed her arms loosely, her expression shifting slightly—less guarded now. "It came in three weeks ago from a collector in Milan. Belonged to her mother before she passed." A beat. "She's convinced it's a Benedetto Pistrucci, and even swears he etched his name in the back. Looks like a bunch of scratches to me."