#dr-monroe

[dcrekslater]

after getting out he made his way to his old apartment, not wanting to disturb his sister. opening the door, the place had been ransacked, the pigs most likely who else ? little by little he got it to look somewhat presentable but he knew it needed a whole lot of work. taking jis key and placing in the lock, he turns as he hears a rustling of bags and sees the familiar face from a few years ago. ❛ oh shit, you good, ma ?  ❜ he helps her with whatever had fallen ❛ nice to see you around doc. ❜

participating :  @dr-monroe​

[fcllonchrming]

Anger was written on her face. Enzo had invited her to lunch at the hospital, and she didn’t think that his fellow colleague would be joining them. Fallon tolerated the mediocre doctor for her friend's sake, but she simply didn’t like her, didn’t know her, and she didn’t wish to. Seeing the food that had been placed in front of her, she smiled, but then again, what she had in front of her had been pure junk. ❛ you do know that it has so many preservatives and calories, right? Then again, you’re wearing scrubs all day, so it's not like anyone is going to notice.  ❜  fiery words slipped from crimson petals and a smile on her lips that declared her victory over the doctor before her. 

feat. @dr-monroe​

[dehumanises]

...   FEATURING   @dr-monroe   /   LENNOX MONROE. [   MARCH 1ST, 2022   ———   EVENT PART THREE.   ]

In his defence, there is none.

The purge is a reckoning, beckoning force that flits into the night. There is no preamble needed to a war; a minuscule ignition was all that was required to propel it into a full-force drive, trembling in the flames. Tonight, he is no longer a spectator. In his quiet urges to smother, he believes it is a justified means. So, when he encounters the underlings of other gangs, he did not entertain any ounce of hesitation. The brambles were there, hurdling his fights. Nobody wants to die, but someone has to. Tangled in the great escape after a few encounters, he is almost grateful that his designer suit is all black.

He isn’t the victim, but he might as well play as one. A game of illusions; he feigns a series of grimaces as he clutches onto his barely scathed arm, the blood not entirely his. It only intensifies when he sees a silhouette, painfully familiar, but knows better than to drop the façade; people are more likely to lunge towards the injured in the rush towards triumphs. Misled, but still. Gabriel winces as he sits on the concrete, back against the slab brick walls. Exhales, inhales. Then, he waits.