“I think it would make me feel better if a giant did try to redecorate. At least he would have been attempting good.” An easy smile fell onto Daniel’s lips as he looked back at his old friend. He did his best not to roll his eyes at the latter part of Cemil’s statement. “I like things a certain way. I’ve been fine running this on my own so far.” He paused, surveying the damage. “I suppose a few extra hands wouldn’t hurt.”
Daniel nodded. His own walls coming down with ease in the company of a friend. “And we wouldn’t want to regret that now, would we?” he snorted, a teasing edge coating his tone.
“our versions of good look a little different,” cemil said, the words edged with that dry, understated humor that never quite reached a smile. the low chuckle that followed was more a rumble in his chest than a sound meant for sharing. he closed the distance between them with an unhurried stride, glancing once at the wreckage before bending to scoop up a splintered bit of shelving. his movements were steady, deliberate, as though helping was simply the next practical step rather than a gesture of comfort.
“you’ve been doing more than fine here,” he went on, eyes flicking briefly to daniel. “but, like you said… can’t risk regretting being a good friend. even for a minute.”
there was no mistaking the flicker of pride in his expression, muted though it was. it sat alongside the irritation of seeing the shop.. daniel’s shop.. left in ruins by sheer bad luck. cemil shifted the piece of wood in his hands and let out a quiet breath.
“so,” he said finally, voice dropping into that familiar dry drawl, “where do we start before i change my mind?”
With Daniel in town she’d picked up a second job at the bookstore mostly to keep an eye on him, but also because the extra money and spending her time busy didn’t hurt. Picking up the books off the floor and she started to put them back on the shelf in the Dewey Decimal system just like they were suppose to be. Hearing footsteps behind her made her jump though and she dropped the books she’d been holding as she turned on her heels. Half expecting it to be Elodie once more, but instead it was Cemil. Ever since Elodie had snapped her neck she hadn’t been able to get the woman’[s face out of her brain. Not even when she originally had died had it bothered her this much or when she’d been harmed in the past, however, they were all faceless beings. This monster had a face, it was constantly haunting her.
“Hey,” She greeted softly before bending down and picking up some of the books she’d dropped. “What can I help you with?” She asked while stacking the books on her knees. “We have pretty much ever genre you could want besides some fanficition. Which… actually some books like 50 shades are fanficition of Twilight, and don’t get me started on the Harry Styles fanficition.” She commented with a laugh. “Although you don’t seem like the type who would be into Harry Styles fan fics.”
cemil didn’t announce himself as he came around the corner, the sound of his boots on the old wooden floorboards the only warning before he stopped a few feet away. the muted warmth of the shop’s lighting softened the angles of his face, though his expression stayed as unreadable as ever.
“hey,” he said, voice low and even, carrying that quiet rasp that always made it sound like more than a simple greeting. his gaze drifted over the books she was gathering, then to the shelf she was restocking. there was something about a place lined with stories that always drew him in, even if he never lingered too long in one section.
“i come here sometimes,” he admitted after a moment, as if it cost him something to say it. “bookstores are… quieter than most places. easier to think.”
the mention of fanfiction pulled the faintest, fleeting smirk to his lips. it wasn’t warm. cemil didn’t really do warm. but, there was a hint of wry amusement in it. “what makes you think i don’t like harry styles fanfiction?” the question slipped out dry, almost teasing, but his tone stayed even, as if he were daring her to assume otherwise. he reached out absently, sliding a book back into place on the shelf she’d been organizing, the motion unhurried.
Meena let out a soft sigh, shoulders sinking as she shuffled through the stack of papers perched in her lap, her glass of wine resting dangerously close to empty. The hum of quiet conversation and clinking glasses filled the country club bar, but she seemed wrapped up in her own little world at the edge of the counter. That is, until a flicker of movement drew her eyes upward. Her breath caught in her throat when she spotted him settled at the far end, the years between them collapsing in an instant. Slowly, she lifted her glass in his direction, the corner of her mouth quirking as she offered a wry, questioning toast. “Cheers?”
cemil had been sitting like a shadow at the end of the bar, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass, the other draped over the back of the stool as if it had claimed the seat before he had. he looked as though the years hadn’t touched him... sharp lines, sharper eyes, that same air of deliberate detachment that could fill a room without a sound. she tugged at his attention, and for a long moment he didn’t move, only let his gaze travel over to where meena sat. that small, familiar lift of her glass tugged something unbidden from memory, but his expression barely shifted; just the barest curl at the edge of his mouth, humorless but not unkind.
he raised his own glass in answer, a slow, almost lazy salute, and tilted his head. “cheers,” he drawled, voice low and roughened by a dozen late nights. a sip followed, unhurried, his dark eyes never quite leaving hers as he got up and made his way closer to her.
"why, my dear meena, are you burying yourself in paperwork?"
While it seemed whatever had created the chaos had now dissipated, it had left behind quite the mess. Astrid had spent most of the morning settling things down on the ranch, re-convincing her animals that she was not a threat. About midday she ventured back into town, cussing under her breath at the carnage littering the streets. Pulling over, the blonde stepped out of the old pickup, shaking her head as she surveyed the damage. "What a fucking disaster."
cemil stepped out from the shadow of a half-toppled streetlamp, his expression as dark as the soot still hanging in the air. eyes flicked over the wreckage with practiced disdain before he settled on astrid.
"you think this is bad?" his voice was flat, edged with irritation. "sinners looks worse. place is half wrecked—glass everywhere, tables splintered. i should be billing the bastards responsible for damages, not sweeping up after them like some fucking janitor."
he dragged a hand down his face, the faintest curl of a smile slipping through the gloom. "suppose misery loves company. at least you’ve got your livestock to curse at. i get to stare at broken neon signs."
an 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 for DANIEL RILEY set at new leaf bookstore !!
It was not a shock to anyone that Daniel Riley spent most of his time at his bookstore. The last bookstore he owed the man had made it a mission for the shop to be his safe haven. For a few years it had been until that fateful Valentine's day. With New Leaf, his continued that promise, knowing in his soul that the chances of this once actually being safer were higher. The store was not safe from the chaos that had endued. Thankfully, the damage was minimal. It was mostly scattered books and torn pages. A few furniture pieces may need to be replaced but it was nothing too serious.
currently, daniel was putting away newer books on the shelves when he heard the front door bell ring. "Oh, sorry we're closed." he paused, realizing his answer was short. "We're closed for the day due to ... mess. we'll be open tomorrow."
"yeah, i can see the mess, daniel. place looks like a drunk giant tried to redecorate. didn’t think you’d have the patience to pick it all back up yourself." cemil leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "you really ought to hire more people to help you. but no, stubborn as ever. the bookstore hermit."
he tilted his head, voice dropping softer despite the gruffness. "figured you might need a hand. don’t make me regret being a decent friend for once."
full name: cemil arslan. alias(es): cemi. age: 245 (appears 38). date of birth: november 14, 1780. species: vampire (turned at 32). occupation: owner of sinners, a high-profile nightclub that serves as a neutral ground for supernatural dealings. residence: a penthouse above the club, though he keeps a hidden, older safehouse beneath it. nationality: turkish (born in london to a turkish family of hunters). languages: english, turkish, french; conversational latin from old texts.
height: 6’3” (191 cm). build: broad-shouldered, lean muscle, intimidating silhouette. hair: black, thick, slightly unruly, usually kept just above the shoulders. eyes: dark brown with a faint amber ring when hungry or agitated. distinguishing features: scar across his ribs from his final hunt as a mortal, bite scar on his arm from his sire, branded hunter’s mark (family talisman) faintly visible on his left shoulder. style: tailored dark clothing — often black shirts, coats, and boots. rarely flashy, but always deliberate. accent: blended — london-born, softened over centuries with hints of turkish cadence. blood type (pre-turning): o–. scars: yes, carried from mortal days and one vampiric wound that never healed. tattoos/piercings: none. scent: worn leather, tobacco smoke, iron, and cold stone.
born in 1780 to a turkish family of hunters living in london, cemil arslan was raised in the shadow of duty. his bloodline had tracked and destroyed creatures of the night for generations, using a gambling hall as the front for their work. cemil proved himself early — a sharpshooter with a steady hand, a hunter who knew every shadow and secret in the city. rigid, stoic, and rough-edged, he wore his discipline like armor.
but then came meena raja. dazzling where london was gray, soft where his world was harsh. cemil couldn’t help himself — sneaking away to share stolen moments with her, convincing himself he could carry both duty and love. when he discovered she was a witch, he faltered, torn between the teachings of his family and the softness she had sparked in him. he promised her they could run away together, far from london, far from the blood and the hunt. but before they could, he swore he had to finish what he had started: the hunt for the vampire theodore.
fate had other plans. theodore was stronger, faster. cemil was cut down, left bleeding in the gutter where he was meant to meet meena. barely conscious, he begged her not to interfere — not to make it worse. but her love struck a bargain with the very monster he hunted. to save his life, theodore turned him, binding cemil to a hunger he had been raised to despise. when he awoke, he bore not only the mark of the bite, but the bitter truth: meena had chosen to survive, marrying the sire who had destroyed him.
for centuries cemil has endured, gritting his teeth through the politics of the undead, carrying old scars and older grudges. now, in modern nights, he runs sinners — a gleaming nightclub built on the ruins of his family’s hunting crypt, where vampires, witches, and mortals mingle under his watchful eye. grumpy, serious, forever marked by betrayal, cemil walks the long road of eternity with discipline still as his armor.
connection ideas:
the coworker — workplace banter, rivalry, or reluctant teamwork.
the rival — competition in love, work, or status.
the ex — messy feelings and unfinished business.
the one-night stand — awkwardness or rekindled sparks.
the mentor — someone to look up to (or grow to resent).
the protégé — someone who clings too tightly to cemil.
the enemy turned ally — temporary teamwork, reluctant respect.
the neighbor — too nosy, too loud, or too close. or just someone who checks on cemil often.
the regular — at sinner's nightclub, always showing up.
the partner-in-crime — cemil's mischief (or felony) buddy.
the stranger with answers — mysterious and inconveniently knowledgeable.
the unrequited crush — someone who never got over it (or maybe he didn’t).
the bad influence — the one who drags cemil into trouble.
the good influence — the one always trying to save him from himself.
the healer — literal or metaphorical, the one who patches him up.
