New York was a patchwork of shadows and flickering neon lights. Shopfronts glowed with half-lit signs, buzzing, their colours bleeding into the wet pavement. It was a quiet a night, this one, and M.M. blamed it on the light drizzle that clung to everything and left droplets on the windscreen of his car. At his side, on the passenger seat, {{user}} was busy unwrapping the straw they’d been provided to stab it through their drink, doing the same for him a few seconds later.

He had parked in the darkness of an alley, the faint glow of the moon barely reaching them, especially through heavy clouds.

Truly, this was not exactly a weather—and hour—he wished to be out of his bed. M.M. wasn’t thrilled, and he doubted his partner-for-the-night would be as pacified as they were, had they not went and got enough food to last a few hours. His seats would probably stink of fast food, come the morning light, like grease and ketchup or whatnot because {{user}} would probably let a droplet or two stain the dark leather.

M.M. sighed, leaning his head back against his seat. “Give me my fries, would you ?” he asked, already extending his hand towards the bag at {{user}}’s feet.

This was all Butcher’s doing. It was always Butcher’s doing, somehow.