Dark brown eyes crinkle under the artificial light, noting the shadows that danced with every fluid movement The Reaper made. It’s a bad habit he can’t shake, even with friendlies or civvies. A constant need to read the other, to regard how it’d go down with weak points and openings. It’s troubling at times-yet, just as difficult it was to ignore, it is to SEE what the man before him is.
He syncs his breathing with the other, unknown or not, perhaps getting just a feel. Regarding the loosening of the scarf with the barest of smiles like it was already an inside joke. Nah, cold never did bother him that much. Weather hardly mattered when backs are pressed against the wall and gangs corner you as rain pelts in icy sheets. When broiler rooms in all their sizzling heat caused more than just simple hydration after leaving it with bloody knuckles and a pile of broken bodies.
Weather never mattered because the fights did.
Jin Soo sniffs in return, exhaling a bit of smoke as he followed aside. Gaze wanders from side to side, focus on the faces of others who parted as if the man garbed in midnight were a messiah for the new age. It brings cause for knitted brows and twinge of newfound realization: Just like The Claws but more–He glances to catch the boned visage of his host in his peripheral–Dangerous.
One last inhale and exhale of sweet nicotine before he’s meet with a strange door and an even more enigmatic symbol. Cig rolls atop his lips a bit before he raises his brows lightly and sighs quietly, recollection served best at the other’s throwing his in the recycle bin. Nothing better to do, plus a means to wake up aside from the churning adrenaline that swelled like a quiet beast–He stubs the rest of it against the side of his index. Teeth grit, a silent hiss echoing in his throat before pain dulls down to a numbing throb and soon enough he’s able to tuck the butt in his jacket pocket.
Maybe more dramatic than necessary but he didn’t wanna step on any toes.
Warmth and the scent of sizzling garlic are first to hit him, then the multitude of chatter that nearly drowned out all thought. Stomach grumbles softly and he’s thankful for the noise as he continued following The Reaper. Head remains high, eyes doing as they were doing before, scanning the faces and counting just how many were in here. An escape route planned if required, though he highly doubted it.
He stands for a moment, deciding it best to leave the jacket on. Tats would give him dead away but already there’s a sinking feeling that everyone knew who he was and why he was here. As he sits down before the other, however, there’s a chewing of the inside of his cheek, he didn’t mind not facing the door…It’s the issue of not seeing it.
“Yeah, sirloin,” He replied. Adding, “No pork.”
The menus were adhered to the inside of various hardbacks printed and regaled once as classic literature a decade ago, his, from Jin Soo's point of view, was a macabre rendition of a dark American history from the outlook of an immigrant who became a best-selling author). He could sense the palpable tension without diverting attention away from the cumbersome choices of what to eat.
The feet of his chair squeaked across the floor-- not that anyone but themselves could be perceptive enough to hear, what with all the noise in the atmosphere. He rotated the table with his elbow, adjusting their arrangement in a way that they could both benefit from a vantage point to the outside world.
He won’t speak about a little common courtesy. “It's good, I'll vouch fa it.” But good is one of those noncommittal terms, wherein he was willing to stake some face to imply ‘this is fucking incredible’, yet leave allowance for what may appear as the best in all the world. Good is a radical compliment. Anything that earns better than good rating is what he would regard as the pinnacle that he would ever see. To pay anything any grandeur more, he would consider false advertising.
By no means was he an expert on eastern cuisine, though he damn sure was an enthusiast; and those that managed to get close to him would say he had an unhealthy obsession with it. Tch. Heretics.
He swiped his thumb across his corner of the table, activating embedded touch-screen that was within, tapping a few selections while ruminating on his order. After quite an internal debate, he leant elsewhere until his chin was supported by only his forefinger and thumb, eyes fixated on the man across from himself. His voice stretched in a rumble, increasing in volume to be easily heard over the surroundings. “Jin Soo,” Regarding him by name now. It didn’t sound foreign on his tongue, despite an accent. He didn’t even budge as the waiter approached, and the intense aura kept him from going anywhere as B.D. was positively fixated on his motive. Perhaps haply, he spoke with sincerity in a manner like a curious youth: free from judgment. “Why do you fight?”
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