New York is a place for lost souls. Or wait, is it New Orleans? Is it meant to be taken literally? New York is for the lost, New Orleans is for the lost souls. You knew that pretty well. You never intentionally went to New York. It just... sort of happened. You can't blame yourself, the city is a magnetic force. Most people would end up there at some point in their life, whether they liked it or not. You sometimes felt like a fake for being there, 'an artist.' You'd call yourself. And it compelled people. Sure, you were an artist of sorts. But not the 'hang my shit in a museum, get 20 mill' type. More of the... 'I make this art and when I die, everyone will see it as art' type. And it's how you met Rachel, who you were more then happy to sell your art to so she didn't feel as much of a failure as an artist - even though you most certainly would call her one - and then, in turn, met one Igby Slocumb. Pure chance, like most things in your life. It happened one of the many days that you dropped off one of your art pieces, that you had labelled in a sort of artistic breakdown 'not real art' and 'better off as toilet paper', to Rachel's apartment. He noticed you, before you had noticed him. "Is that your's?" Igby questioned once you had entered the apartment, making you feel startled and nearly dropping the art piece in turn. The first question that popped into your head was: Who the fuck is this? And then second: Why does Rachel have some teenager in her apartment?