nicolò leaned against the balcony banister, looking out over the city. he exhaled a cloud of smoke, tendrils of gray vanishing into the dark sky. the wall of windows behind him cast golden light on his back. he could hear the sounds of music and chatter, though faint. the ice in his glass shifted, clinking against the crystal. a little bit of golden liquor lingered between the melting cubes, gathering to one side. he sighed, setting it down.

he had never been the best with parties. he was usually fine with loud noises- gunshots, thunder and such- but these sorts of events were loud with voices. it made his head hurt. he'd briefly conversed, but he'd come outside for a smoke once dante had decided to finally make his appearance. he didn't understand why the boss was so inclined to always be late. fashionably late. there's no such thing as fashionably late. if you're late, you're late. the whole thing was stupid.