[ @kaisloane ] 0019. 31/10/2018. 20:33PM. CAP. TERRITORY / e. THE PURGE.
In a city spun into chaos, where anyone worthy of going toe to toe with danger treads the cobblestones with highly strung caution, she tracks him down by breaking the fingers of three different Capulet lackeys, receiving a heads-up text from a Montague who owes her a favour, and a whole lot of blind, dumb luck. Grace can’t remember the last time she saw Cyrus, but there’s no mistaking that the lithe-limbed youth is him. There’s a certain slant to his shoulders that suggests he isn’t enjoying himself tonight as much she is, so she approaches with enough zest to make up for it by detaching herself from the shadows to immediately invade his personal space. A palm slamming into the centre of his chest, she grabs at the material and holds him in place. “Isn’t this a nice surprise, baby boy? Have you missed me?” She raises her chin, eyeing him critically, uncertain if the dark smudge on his jawline is a pitiful attempt to grow facial hair or simply some dirt. “La Purga really is fun for all the family.”
The back of a bloody knuckle grazes the line of Cyrus’ cheek with false affection, itching with desire to break the skull of this boy-king who has already achieved so much more than she has. It’s infuriating. It’s a depressingly common theme. It’s enough to make Grace’s lip twitch in irritation. “How’s mummy, Cyrus?” Her mouth cuts into a sharp shape. “Wait, it’s something else now, isn’t it? Because dio knows that a name change is going to solve all your fucking problems. Clay? Cry? Chai?”