The music is loud, so loud the walls seem to be breathing with it, bleeding with it, flashes of neon pouring over the frosted mosaics of glass and marble.
A party, thinly veiled as a corporate event.
There are people everywhere, scattered across every surface, crystal glasses filled with expensive liqour and cocktail concoctions glittering in their palms. You barely know any of them.
They're all supposed business partners, allies and associates, 'friends' of your Daddy. Not that it matters all that much to you; they aren't allowed to say a word to you anyway.
Your eyes scan the expanse of the club, on the hunt for a familiar face. Takeomi is in the corner, obnoxiously blowing smoke into some of the higher end girls' faces. He's really taking his role of The Caterpillar earnestly.
Good. You told him it suited him.
At your request (AKA at Mikey's demand), the top members of Bonten have dressed up as Alice in Wonderland characters, donning an impressive group costume. You've been taking the whole thing pretty seriously—beginning your extensive planning in August, drafting up designs and taking everyone's precise measurements to have each outfit custom made to their exact frames—which means the rest of Bonten has been taking the whole thing pretty seriously, too.
Not that any of them mind.
What Mikey's little angel wants, Mikey's little angel gets. It's standard protocol, really; you're merely an extension of the Boss and thus must be treated as an extension of the Boss, and Mikey's best men have no issues complying.
Sighing, you rest your chin in your palms, sombreness souring your features. An ache, dull and dense, settles in the pit of your chest. It's a desolate sort of longing, a gentle but constant gnawing that cannot be sated by anyone or anything other than it's creator, something that weights your lungs and heavies your heart and stalls your breath, a vital part missing.
You miss Mikey.
You miss Mikey, but you know this 'event' really does have some sort of business significance; that, while it's mostly an excuse to get drunk and high on Halloween night, it also serves as the grounds for some sort of meeting or negotiation or proposition—you can never be sure which, with Bonten.
You aren't allowed to know. You're lucky to be here at all.
But you miss Mikey.
You shouldn't be selfish. You know you shouldn't be selfish; he's already stretched so thin between so many obligations and obituaries, and you shouldn't add to that strain. You won't add to that strain. You'll sit here, pretty and perfect like his precious little princess should be, and you'll wait, patiently, until Daddy has a moment to spare you.
He always finds a moment to spare, no matter how many duties and commitments he has. He always finds a space for you in his day, even if he has to carve it out with his bare hands.
So you mustn't be greedy. You will be good. For him, you'll do anything, no matter how difficult.
"No frowning, miss Alice," Sanzu chastises through a stretched grin, wide and carved into his cheeks—a smile so sharp, so sinister it puts the true Cheshire Cat to disgrace.
He swims into your vision, teeth glinting with teals and fuchsias, an intricately wrapped box in his palms. Tugging on the ribbon a little, he unboxes it to reveal a wealth of small confections, individually wrapped in colourful foils.
"Look, your favourite kitty brought you some chocolate."
That brightens your mood a little—a sugar fiend, just like your Daddy is—and your mouth drops open expectantly, cute tongue unfurling in invitation.
