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@sevrin-oconnell
𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢.
#notsorry
𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳
𝚂𝙴𝚅𝚁𝙸𝙽 𝙾'𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙻𝙻 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙴𝙵𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚁𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙰 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝙸𝚇 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝙾𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚋𝚢 𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙶𝚄𝙽𝙿𝙾𝚆𝙳𝙴𝚁 & 𝙲𝙸𝙶𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙰 𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙻𝙴 𝙳𝚁𝙾𝙿 𝙾𝙵 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝙰 𝙲𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙿 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗.
where : the cistern market who : closed for Claud @sillcge
There was no telling what it was that the antiques dealer had done to earn the rushed contract on his life, and it honestly didn't matter to Sevrin in the slightest. It was none of his business, and the credits would spend the same no matter the story behind them. What did matter to Sevrin, however, was the other information the client left out : specifically that the old man was expecting the hit, and that he could afford to do something about it.
Sevrin finds himself lingering inside the shop, feigning interest in the wares on display there while he scopes out the extent of the goddamn mess of things. What was supposed to be a quick lights-out for the grizzled relic of a human behind the counter, has instead has turned into a real pain in the ass with two bulldog-looking giants standing at either side of the shop's entrance, their fingers resting on the triggers of dust-worn rifles.
To make matters worse, just as a feasible strategy comes together in his head, his hand shifting towards the piece hidden underneath his jacket at his hip to get the job over with, another patron decides to casually mosey their way inside. ( Because why the fuck not, right? ) While collateral damage happened in his line of work, if the potential irritation of witnesses could be reduced, it was worth a few minutes of patience for them to go about their business and leave.
His hand returns to inspecting the barrel of an old six-shooter to buy the time, just as the wandering patron finds himself at Sevrin's side, seemingly minding his own business. Sevrin sighs, far more annoyed over the entire situation than he should be. He looks upwards toward them, a 'fuck off' locked and loaded at the tip of his tongue before sudden recollection blindsides him the moment he gets a good look at his face.
"No fucking way... Claud?"
hommcfatalc:
a job, a job– it was always a job.
he’d just finished sending the audio recording to the wife– she wanted to know what her husband had been getting up to when he said he was working late at the office. a simple job, really but they couldn’t all be wild adventures, could they? and petty housewives tended to be loose with their currency. especially when their husbands had track records of infidelity. ( geez, lady, maybe it’s time to take a hint. )
leaving the cheating husband to what was beginning to sound like multiple partners, ripley had his sights set on the door. that was until a pretty young thing came walking out of a small alcove, her plump bottom lip pushed out in a pout and the sound of her heels muffled in the sounds around. he watched he walk for a moment, contemplating more on what had led to that sort of a face ( skipped out on the tip, did he, sweetheart? ) when someone spoke.
a familiar voice reached his ear from the small alcove the dejected woman had just staggered out of. the corner of his mouth curled in a smirk, slipping into where sevrin sat. the red glow of the lantern cast harsh shadows across the other man’s face but it was him alright and that smirk curved all the more, blue eyes glinting with something like interest ( though maybe more like mischief– like he had a joke sitting on the tip of his tongue ).
“you? unfriendly?” the incredulity in his voice was teasing, edging on mocking but in a lighter manner, “who could accuse you of being unfriendly, o’connell?” for a moment, the smirk turned into a smile, flashing white teeth at the other before continuing bemused, “maybe you should’ve smiled more– were you not enjoying yourself?”
taking a closer look at the man in his seat, that smirk curled the corner of his mouth again, “huh. no, i don’t think you were.” that was a face of a man who was definitely not enjoying himself. ripley moved slowly but purposefully closer towards the other, advancing with an almost teasing challenge ( what are you going to do about it? ) before standing so close that one more step would’ve ended up with ripley in his lap. he stood there for a moment before asking in a voice smooth as whiskey tumbling over ice, “this seat taken?”
his hand gestured to the empty seat beside sevrin, that perpetual nearly-smug smirk on his face ( he knew the joke but he wasn’t sharing– not yet ), “i’ve never minded your company. and i’m friendly enough for the both of us.”
Sevrin's eyes track the approaching silhouette as it moves with a near-liquid grace ( that the knock-kneed woman could only hope to one day possess ) past the flimsy, ornate screens that pose as some modicum of implied privacy, to the couch where he sat. The lantern light flickers, casting a warm glow to the contours of his face; gleaming across the sharp angles of his glasses, to the curve of his jaw as it draws shadows downward to the line of his throat ( exposed, just enough, by a single undone button. ) It was the smirk, though, that gives him away. Sevrin would know the shape of it anywhere; that incessant, mischievous curve, soundlessly humming, 'I know something you don't know.'
"Hello, Ripley," he greets, his own voice tempered with an amusement that teetered at the boundary of what he'd ever consider affection.
He doesn't bother to interrupt Ripley's questions with answers, enjoying the turn of his words as he plays with his tone, knowingly drawing his own conclusions to them anyway. Of course, Sevrin was not unfriendly; not when there was something he wanted. And, of course he hadn't been enjoying himself — because she didn't possess what he did. She never could.
It was something undefinable. Something they shared. It was that thing that causes skin to prickle into goosebumps, the fine hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end. That visceral coil in your stomach that made a person squirm in the presence of something dangerous. The prompt to fight, or flee.
Sevrin chose neither. Instead, he relaxed back into the couch, his shoulders melting into the cushion behind him as Ripley closes the distance, stopping just short of the contact Sevrin was anticipating. He shifts, the slightest of motions, to dismiss the tension the denial causes. Always teasing.
"It's yours," he says passively about the seat next to him, though it was unnecessary; Ripley would already know it was. "Friendly, I'll believe, but charitable?" There's a brief shrug, Sev's face tilting to one side curiously, his tongue clicking as he says, "nahhh, I don't buy that. Your time isn't cheap. So what's the line? Nothing better to do tonight, perhaps? Or maybe you’ll convince me that you've missed me? It has been awhile."
tiitaniium:
Status :|: Open ! Locale :|: Salus .
“ Oh lost are you ? I see. Unfortunately, you are going to have to leave the premise anyway. Wouldn’t want you stumbling into anything dangerous. Or anyone… ” Having been hired to guard this area, he wasn’t new to having to escort people out of places they shouldn’t be but no one had bold faced lied about being lost before. It’s not like it was easy to access. “ If you’ll please follow me ? ” he poised the sentence as a question though the other had no choice in the matter.
Sevrin grins, a crooked little thing as the voice behind him confirms the security's identity. He wouldn't have bothered approaching this closely had he not not wanted to know for sure. His target would have to leave the premises eventually, it would have been easy enough to stay on top of the building across the way, looking through the scope of his sniper rifle to satisfy the contract with a bit of patience and a single squeeze of the trigger — nice, and neat. But it was through that same scope that he caught sight of him, or at least the blurry flicker that was just enough for the professional to wonder, 'could it be?'
Sev raises his arms in mock surrender, before turning to find there the face he hadn't seen in close to a decade. "Still as serious as ever, I see," he observes aloud, his tone warm with amusement, "is this really how you're going to greet an old friend?"
buryeden:
The vastness of Soteria was something Huxley constantly took advantage of, never crossing the same path twice whether a scheme kept her warm and fed, or simply burned. She had avoided the higher levels of the city as those areas were a little bit harder to reach, and the fall would a bit harder, too. The shallows of Soteria were easier to manage. She had also learned that the parts of Soteria illuminated by neon weren’t as segregated as the rest of the city and the outskirts of it. It just took a closer eye, and in an establishment like this, a little wink.
It was a passing gig, one for just the last couple of nights until she could get the piece she needed to finally get her vehicle— not to be mistaken for the mundane name car after all the work she put into it— working again without a sputter that announced her arrival everywhere. Huxley may have not stuck around, but she did have a reputation that would eventually catch up to her for being a nuance and mixed opinions on the work she did provide. Just one more night until she had less than an hour’s worth of credits to process, and she’d be back on her way out of the city for now. There was no such thing as a particular welcome from the iridescent gleam of the inner city, but she had certainly grown tired of it by now.
She had been listening carefully to those who came in and out, plucking words that would be of use to her. She was hoping to find something to keep her entertained for the night until a familiar voice caught her attention from over her shoulder.
Nevermind.
She leaned back off the chair for the end of the dance, the swig of her arm from a pop of her lips into her hand falling short as she looked for the owner of the complaint. Upside down, he didn’t look how she expected. “You might be out of luck, then. Assholes are just her type. She’ll probably be coming back soon, maybe doing a little costume change. She doesn’t give up easily because no one comes in here with good intentions. Though, almost everyone’s lookin’ for a dance. What’s the difference with you? No one dreads coming in here unless they’re a bachelor or working a double shift.”
Sevrin's face tilts as the doll-faced blonde leans backwards off the chair, her striking ( and distantly familiar ) eyes locking with his own. He leans forward in his seat, elbows pressing into his knees, holding her gaze with distinct curiosity. He could care less about the one who'd already come and gone, shoulder's lifting for a brief moment passively at the mention of her. "I'll be sure to be more clear next time, if she does. No means no, right?" he says, the tone of his promise coming off as more sinister than he intends.
He could swear he's seen her before. Somewhere, elsewhere. From a time ago, maybe; though he couldn't coax any more useful details from his memory. It definitely wasn't from here, for as frequently as he visited he would have certainly noticed her before. Or, maybe he wouldn't have. There were very few people who Sevrin found worth remembering, which was why this sudden misplaced recollection found it's way under his skin.
A quiet laugh from the sideways tilt of a grin follows her question : what's the difference with you? "There's no difference at all. I'm just another asshole with credits to spend and time to kill. Is that your type too?" His head shakes, answering the inquiry himself, "Nahh... I don't think it is. I don't think any of this," his eyes lift, scanning across the debauchery of the venue, "is your thing at all.”
“My motivations are easy : I'm bored, I've got commitment issues, and I want to be entertained — nothing special. Yours, though? Those are vastly more interesting. Is it the credits you’re after? One more dance, one more night and you're outta here, kinda deal? You don't seem like you're the sort to stick around long."
coralinesharp:
“Since when did people need a reason to blow things up? Why can’t things be blown up just for the love of it?” And Coraline did love it. When she saw a prime target there was little that could be done to stop her, especially not something as trivial as other people’s inconvenience. If anything it added a little extra fun.
She stayed behind her wall, which was half rubble, sensing something a little more than annoyance coming from the man. “I can’t stop it now. The timer’s set - and I’m not all that accurate. Could go at any second. And I could have let you walk right into it, but because I’m a nice person, I didn’t. You could say thank you.” A dead body usually put a damper on the celebration of the explosion, which is why she checked buildings before she planted anything. Not always as thoroughly as necessary, but enough to soothe her own conscience.
“What’s the shit you have to do here later anyway? There’s nothing around except—”
At that moment a deafening boom sounded from somewhere up ahead, followed by a billowing cloud of orange smoke and ash that spewed pieces of rubble up and outwards. A particularly large piece landed not three feet away from them, and Coraline’s face split into a wide grin.
“Ruins.”
"Oh, fuck, well, I don't know, maybe it's RUDE to just blow shit up assuming someone else doesn't have use for it? Ever think of that?" He'd spent the better part of the last two days planning this hit, and some frivolous bomb-bug was about to send it all crumpled to hell in the span of minutes. Annoyance barely scratches the surface of the foul mood this was putting him in.
His brows rise incredulously as she continues to speak. Sevrin wasn't even honestly sure what to address first. Which was more nonsensical? The fact that her fucking timer wasn't even AcCuraTe? Or that she had some bizarre notion that she deserved gratitude for stopping him? ( At least if he'd been blown up, he wouldn't have to deal with the fucking mess this was about to cause him. )
Before he could choose, the goddamn thing went off. ( Two fucking minutes his ass. ) He stands watching the destruction with a deep set frown on his face as the smoke pulls dust and debris upwards into billowing orange smoke. The ground shudders beneath his feet, and mere moments later chunks of gravel and ruin trickle down from the sky. He stands, firmly in place, too pissed to even move, not even when a particularly ballsy piece scrapes down the side of his cheek.
As the air begins to settle, Sev takes in a very slow, very deliberate inhale. They say if you count to ten, whatever is bothering you will get better; that it's a calming technique for when shit's going wrong. In all of his many years in the prime of his career, however, Sevrin has never made it to ten.
"You've got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME." He turns now to where the woman had taken cover, and long, purposeful strides move him towards her, quickly closing the distance between them, his hand already reaching for the gun holstered at his hip. "Now's a GOOD TIME for a solid reason why I shouldn't just put a bullet between your eyes."
vandaals:
this is not been the first time that reinier van daal had pissed someone off to the point of perpetual violence. it was something of a talent of his, sticking his fingers into the little grooves of a person and pressing all of the right ( or wrong ) buttons until they snapped and did something regrettable. anyone could pull the records of his time in school —hoity-toity or not, and discover that it had been his specialty in his youth. a shit-eating grin often marred his visage the moments before they curled their fist and impact was made. he’d always enjoyed the tangy copper taste on his tongue … but it was the sting of an answer he enjoyed more and the way it left his knuckles feeling sore and swollen thereafter. what was the world going to do but slap the wrist of the little prince and tell him not to do it again?
bad habits translated into adulthood —but of course they would to a boy who’d never really been admonished or chastised of anything in his life. he could get away with murder, if it wasn’t too expensive to pay off. but that was far too messy, blood was such a horrible thing to clean up and hide. paint, though? nobody suspected a thing from someone who wandered into an art store and purchased hobby in stock. murder wasn’t quite redd’s speed but painting was, art in general was, and so was quickly learning how to fleece the market of people too stupid to tell a fake from the real deal.
it was fun for him. he didn’t need the cash and more than half the time he certainly didn’t want the ugly art they were having restored, anyway. but it was bound to catch up to him eventually … someone was bound to notice eventually, and they had before. but there hadn’t been a single thing they could do about it. this time, though? this time they’d actually paid for a hit on him. —redd had laughed, until his well-tailored shadow kept showing up. and kept showing up. and kept showing up.
there was nothing in the world that redd van daal couldn’t buy. his life included.
hands were pressed into the pockets of pants that were more expensive than they really were fashionable —the kind of clothing that only someone with that much money and that little to need to spend it on would or could buy. his head cocked to the side as he considered the piece - nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with sevrin, save for the wisp of space that separated them. it wasn’t the nicest looking thing in the world … he’d know, he’d painstakingly restored it. and it was nice to be able to inflate the value, even if he’d rather stare at the inside of his own eyelids than hang it on his living room wall.
“ you probably can, now. ” amusement tinged his tone, a smirk that turned the corner of his lips up only slightly, but just enough. from the side of cold, earthen eyes he caught the profile of his former-assassin-turned-whatever he was now ( shadow, still ). “ but i wouldn’t recommend it. just visiting? or bored, mr. o’connell? ”
.
Artists and murderers had more in common than they probably should. It was all in the signature, you see; the technique that made their work uniquely theirs. The way the brush pulls across canvas to create the illusion of an entire universe in pigment and oils. The tell-tale halo of blood that spills an entire life onto asphalt from a precisely placed bullet. They were basically one and the same. ( Especially if you squint. ) There was the pride to mention as well, in the power both wielded. On one hand, of creating something out of nothing; something so beautiful it inspired the imaginations of others to open their wallets and sign away hours of their lives for it to breathe that same life into their own home. On the other, taking it all away; that same inspiration and breath of life, the promise of more to come, snuffed like a flame between calloused fingers. They were two sides of the same coin.
Maybe that's why the got along. If ' getting along ' was even what this was. Either way, Sevrin could hear it in his voice, that trace of amusement in his words that found it's way into each of these visits. And without turning to look, Sevrin knew that accompanying the tone, Redd wore that trademark smirk of his. The one that curled just to one side, that seemed to wordlessly whisper to all those around him, ' you can't touch me '. Honestly, it made him look like a stuck up rich asshole. But, that's what he was, so no foul.
"Curious," was the best answer Sevrin had to Redd's question, before finally turning his face to look at him. "But it’s passed. I'm definitely bored now. This," he gestures vaguely, indicating the entirety of the venue, "isn't as interesting as I thought it'd be. Nearly dying must have been a real thrill for you if this is how you usually spend your time." There was a brief pause, before he was compelled to add, "your pants are ridiculous, by the way."
where : some shithole in salus ( aka hal's place ) who : closed for Hal @scnguinesalus
There was something to be said for the kind-hearted. For the generous souls and their helping hands, persistent in their goodness despite the circumstances that surround them. Reaching out in welcome to those in need, extending themselves for the care of others, expecting nothing in return.
Sevrin couldn't relate. ( It honestly sound like way more trouble than it was worth. )
But he was certainly grateful that Hal was someone that could. It wasn't often that he found himself in a bind, but that day his job had gotten fucked up beyond all recognition, and Sevrin found himself scrambling for cover against the greenhouse. His palm was pressing firm against his stomach to try and slow the dribbling of his own blood from between his fingers, and that was precisely how Hal had found him. Sevrin could remember his face looking down at him, just as his own vision began to blur before going black.
Favors were a currency that Sevrin preferred to avoid, but for what Hal had done, patching him up and giving him a place of relative safety to recover, he was willing to make an exception.
And so it has become a routine of sorts for Sevrin to check in on the man when ever he found himself in the area, awaiting the day he could clear his debt.
BANG BANG BANG. A closed fist strikes the front door, entirely oblivious to the possibility that Hal may actually be sleeping at such a late hour. Impatiently, only a few quiet moments pass, before his assault continues : BANG BANG BANG. “Hal? HAL! Don’t fuck around, let me in already. You’re not dead or something in there, are you?”
where : no doubt a very reputable establishment in Soteria who : open !
Sweat and desperation always smell the same. From within the neon cradle of Naya Minor's red light district, Soteria's own desecrated alter to humankind's most base desires, to the patchwork tent just outside of Cistern Market, whose single glowing red lantern acts as the only indication of the flesh for sale within — were you to just close your eyes a moment, there was no telling them apart.
( Just ask Sev, he's been to both and can attest to the truth of it. )
Nonetheless, the atmosphere was welcoming after a long day at the "office", but not nearly as welcoming as the woman who stands in front of him, illuminated dimly by warm, flickering candlelight. Her long caramel legs are firmly planted on the ground on either side of his lap, Sevrin's critical blue eyes watching her while her hips roll in slow, sensual circles to try and entice his patronage for the evening.
Unfortunately for her, however, Sevrin only finds himself growing more unamused with each passing second.
"That's enough," he finally drones in rejection, reaching a calloused hand to her hip to guide her off of him with a gentle push. She stares at him dumbly, stumbling backwards on heels that make her wobble like a newborn gazelle. She knew better than to argue though, and walks off after a moment with a dejected pout and an insulted little huff.
Ah, well. Whatever.
Sevrin sighs, but just as he begins to contemplate leaving, his eyes happen upon the figure of someone approaching. Whether it was with intention, or they were simply passing by, he couldn’t tell.
Either way, it was better than having that awkward young thing grinding on him still. "Shit night," he muses in their direction. "You're better of hunting her down for some company if you're lonely, though. Apparently I'm not friendly."
where : a pinky-up art gallery in soteria who : closed for Redd @vandaals
A deal was a deal.
Until there was a better deal, of course.
For putting a bullet between the blue eyes of the silver-spoon trust-fund art dealer, the deal was sweet indeed. Sevrin never cared to know the reasoning behind his jobs — it didn't matter, and it changed nothing. Human nature was petty. It was violent. You jump on the wrong nerve, cross the wrong line, and there was no offence small enough that someone couldn't find a way to justify calling in a professional like Sevrin O'Connell to right the perceived wrong. And that was precisely how he liked it. It kept his wallet fat, and his appetite for watching that bright flicker of life fade from someone's eyes well sated.
It was win-win. Everyone ( still living, at least ) was happy.
Except in Redd's case.
In Redd's case, the client after his life was far from happy when he found out the 'good-for-nothing cheating son-of-a-bitch' ( his words, not Sev's ) managed to dump twice the number of zeros into Sevrin's bank account, effectively buying out his own contract. Right there in the middle of the alley, on his knees with the barrel of Sev's gun pressing wrinkles into the center of his forehead, he paid for his own life.
It was the curiosity that followed that had Sevrin lingering around, wanting to see what exactly a man with that much money did after purchasing perhaps the most precious thing he could : a second chance.
Like a shadow. An apparition out of thin air. A bad smell. Unwanted and inescapable, Sevrin stands behind him, arms crossed peering over Redd’s shoulder at the piece of art hanging on the gallery wall. 'Reinier Van Dall,' the credited restorer, was printed neatly beneath it, with no price listed.
If you had to ask, you couldn't afford it — it was one of those places.
But Sevrin couldn't resist. He had to ask.
His lips curl into a single-sided smirk, “think I could afford something like this?”
coralinesharp:
status: open | location: salus @whrstarters
“Hey! Hey, you!” Coraline emerged from behind the ruined wall of what was once a house, waving her arms frantically at the passing figure who, unknowingly, was walking right into danger’s path. “Not a good idea to go that way! At least, not for another-,” she stopped, looking down at the battered watch on her wrist and giving half a shrug, “-two minutes? Give or take? Unless you want to have your socks blown off, in which case, be my guest.”
.
Measure twice, cut once. It was a good rule of thumb, and not just for carpentry, but for any profession that requires a keen eye and a precise hand — his own, of course, not excluded. It was what drew Sevrin from the sleek lines and glowing neon of Solaris today in the first place, back into the wastes of Salus ( home, sweet, home ). He was here to scope a particular location that his current target has been known to use for their own dealings, to familiarize himself with it's layout so when it was time to punch the clock and get to work, there would be no surprises.
Very much unlike the surprise the frantically gesturing woman was now alerting him to.
Fucking damn it.
Sevrin's approach slows as she speaks, gravel crunching beneath polished black shoes as he comes to a stop, turning to look in her direction, with the utter inconvenience of her warning clear on his face. This was really going to set him back, he'd be starting over entirely with his planning. "You've got to be kidding me.”
“Why the fuck are you blowing the place up, anyway? Could you.. you know, not? I've got shit to do here later."
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