Lovᥱ, Tobᥲᥴᥴo, ᥲᥒd Gᥙᥒρoᥕdᥱr

ᴵ: ᵀᴴᴱ ᴮᴱᴳᴵᴺᴺᴵᴺᴳ ᴼᶠ ᴵᵀ ᴬᴸᴸ

Ah, yes, of course. Where are my manners.
Our beloved protagonist.
Beatrice Kleeman. Feel free to adapt the name to your liking.

The streets whispered with rumors and intrigue, carrying the tales of a young woman's ambitions. It seemed almost audacious, her desire to conquer not just one, but two paths in the world of entertainment. Model and actress, a dual endeavor that demanded both beauty and talent, and she possessed an abundance of both.

Her captivating features were the subject of hushed admiration. Cerulean blue eyes, like pools of endless possibility, held a mesmerizing depth that seemed to beckon the gaze of onlookers. Her tall, statuesque figure commanded attention, exuding an air of confidence and grace. With fur as soft as the finest silk, her tortoiseshell Siamese markings added a touch of exotic allure to her already striking presence.

It was as if she had stepped out of a dream, a vision of elegance and poise, destined to captivate the lens of a camera and the hearts of an audience. The streets buzzed with anticipation, for there was a palpable sense that this young woman possessed the potential to leave an indelible mark on the world of fashion and theatre. Some doubted her audacious goals, dismissing them as mere fantasies. Yet, others couldn't help but be drawn into her orbit, recognizing the undeniable allure she possessed.

Stepping down from the boat that had carried her to this new chapter of her life, she disembarked with purpose. In her possession, she carried a single luggage, containing not only her clothes but also her aspirations and the currency of her dreams. The town she had once called home welcomed her with open arms, but it was accompanied by a distinct scent of oil and radiator fluid that permeated the air. It was a reminder of the gritty reality she was about to face.

With a sigh that held a hint of both apprehension and determination, she took a resolute step forward. This was going to be a hell of a day.

Somewhere, not too far away...

Another cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, its wisps of smoke mingling with the air of the dimly lit room. Amidst the haze, the incessant rambling of a certain Siamese echoed, his voice a constant presence, unable to keep his muzzle shut about his job and the exaggerated sense of importance it bestowed upon him.

With a grumble of annoyance, Zib shifted his position. His body, weary from the weight of the day, draped itself lazily across the counter. Half of him leaned over it, his forearm absentmindedly pushing his glass of whiskey back and forth.

"Ah, Zib. I wasn't sure you were alive after your... uh... eighth drink?"

Zib's lips pressed into a thin line. He knew his indulgence in whiskey wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, but in this moment, it provided a temporary respite from the weight of the world.

"Alive? Well, that's debatable," he replied, his voice laced with a touch of self-deprecating irony.

Wick, sensing a momentary tension in the air, averted his gaze, his tail lashing awkwardly behind him. His eyes darted towards the arrival of Mitzi, who entered the room and took a seat between the two men. Her presence brought a sense of ease, diffusing the subtle unease that had settled between Wick and Zib.

As Mitzi settled into her seat, Wick turned towards her, his feline features softening with a welcoming expression. He greeted her with a warm smile, one she returned happily.

After Viktor, the bartender, placed her usual drink in front of her, she took a moment to savor the familiar taste. Her gaze shifted, locking onto the figure of the male slumped over the counter. With an air of curiosity, her piercing green eyes focused on him.

"Dorian," she began, her voice carrying a mix of concern and a stern bossy nature to it. "I take it you're not playing tonight, either?"

Her words hung in the air, a gentle inquiry laced with a passive-agressive scold. Dorian, his posture weary and his expression tinged with a hint of resignation, lifted his gaze to meet hers.

"Who for? The bar is as empty as ever. I've been seeing the same eight faces for days. There is nothing to play for."

And with that he dropped his head onto the counter again.

Deep down,

He needed to feel alive again.

To feel that spark.

Cigarette burns were not burning as much.

Whiskey daydreams had a due date.

And mundanity was slowly, but surely killing him.

His sax, forgotten on some dark corner of the bar, ached for—at least— one more song.

With a heavy sigh, Dorian mustered the strength to rise from his slumped position. The weariness in his bones was palpable as he muttered a quiet "good night" to the room, acknowledging the inevitable departure from the dimly lit establishment. His instrument stood patiently nearby, a faithful companion awaiting his touch.

As he made his way through the quiet streets, the weight of wanting something else pressed upon him. After Atlas's death, it had all gone downhill. He reminisced upon those good old times...what a life.
Entering his apartment, a sense of familiarity washed over him. The scattered music sheets, strewn clothes, and remnants of unfinished meals were always waiting right there for him.

As Dorian stood there, leaning against the railing, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his last cigarette of the night. With a flick of his lighter, a small flame danced to life, illuminating his face in the dimly lit night. He took a long drag, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs, momentarily providing a sense of calm amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

As his eyes traced the patterns of stars above, a flicker of movement caught his attention. His gaze shifted, drawn to the apartment next to his—the once-empty and unremarkable dwelling that had gone unnoticed by most: a dull, boring place that not most people would be willing to buy. But tonight, it held an unexpected sight.

There she stood, a figure bathed in the soft glow of starlight, her eyes fixed upon the twinkling expanse above. In the midst of the mundane surroundings, she appeared ethereal, as if she were a part of the very cosmos she admired. Intrigued, Dorian observed her from his vantage point. There was a certain mystery about her, an aura that seemed to defy the ordinary. What brought her to this nondescript place? What secrets did she carry within her?

Perhaps she, too, sought solace in the night sky.