CLOSED for @pininganticipation
niko had been at the party for exactly twenty-six minutes, and he already considered it a personal attack. the place was packed wall to wall with people who either wanted to network, get fucked up, or pretend they weren’t staring at the members of stigmata like they were waiting for one of them to bite. his bandmates seemed to be coping better than he was — laughing over drinks, disappearing into corners, and entertaining the usual orbit of fans and industry types with too much perfume and not enough shame. niko, on the other hand, had claimed a spot near the edge of the room with a drink he didn’t want and an expression that made it clear he’d rather be anywhere else. deathcore had given him a career, a fanbase, and enough money to ignore most people. unfortunately, it had also given him invitations to shit like this. he took one sip, regretted it immediately, and glanced over the rim of his glass with open judgment. “this is tragic,” he muttered, though whether he meant the music, the crowd, or the guy across the room trying to explain stigmata’s own breakdowns to their drummer was anyone’s guess. niko was dressed for the occasion in the sense that he’d shown up in black, looked expensive without trying, and carried himself like the party had inconvenienced him personally. when someone drifted close enough to invade his little pocket of misery, his eyes trailed over them with lazy interest, mouth curving into that smug almost-smile that tended to make people either hate him or lean closer. “let me guess,” he said, tilting his glass toward them. “you’re either here to tell me you love the band, or you’re about to ask why i look like i’m plotting a murder. only one of those is boring, so choose carefully.”
