@romeovu
the little celebration after the night’s heist seems to thrive even as the hours grow late, but gemma’s had her fill of it for the moment. when she thinks no one is watching, too busy doing their own thing, she heads up to her little room on the second floor above the garage, grabbing her reliable bottle of bourbon and a small glass from her windowsill; then, it’s to the roof. the cool night air carries with it a gentle breeze that tangles the ends of her hair, and she breathes in deep before finding an corner to sit by. legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop, bourbon in hand with the bottle on the ground behind her — this, she thinks, is the most quiet it’s been since the day started. with both hands wrapped around her glass, she kicks her feet in the air, legs swinging as she takes in the late night sky and the vegas cityscape, the alcohol leaving a satisfying burn at the back of her throat. she leans forward, letting the sense of vertigo overcome her as she stares at the ground a few storeys below. attentive as she tends to be, it doesn’t take gemma much to notice when this moment of quiet is interrupted by the warehouse’s metal rooftop door squeaking behind her — a sign that someone’s either followed her up from the party, or the cops have come to shut them down in a silent raid. (her cynicism comes in healthy doses, really.) given how surprisingly well they did, though, even gemma senses how unlikely the latter is. she leans backward a little, away from the edge, but doesn’t turn around. “not enjoying the party?” she calls out.
