They say all that glitters is not gold. The system is broken, the government is alienated, and old people don’t wanna pay their taxes. People like to outrage, they like to see a show go on. Chaos is what everyone craves, but yet hides from. The main road to Roseville Street doesn’t even have a visible yellow line anymore, what good comes out of that. It’s a little dingy, showing that those workers would rather forcefully bang their heads against the road instead of actually fixing it. Give them a raise all you want, they’re not gonna magically start repainting the whole thing, moron.
Roseville Street isn’t all what it’s chalked up to be. Some say it’s paradise, and others say it’s the hotspot for drug deals and irresponsible teenagers to do dumb shit. Guess it depends on the type of person that you are, or maybe it depends on the time of day. But that doesn’t matter in the long run, the press covers just about everything that happens daily there.
But oh, you cannot tell me that people seriously enjoy a street that looks partially dead from the inside. The buildings that are seen on the street look more historic than anything out of a museum. Headache-inducing white walls, lined with brick pillars and a half caved in rooftop that looks like even the tiniest of wind could send it catapulting down. Good grief, that’s not even a regular house, that’s just a tourist attraction at this point.
But one thing that’s to be talked about is the weather, those murky clouds and the chilly air that suffocates any living breathing thing inside of Roseville. And, y’know, it’s ironic because it’s literally just the wind. Free oxygen, and yet even that in of itself can suffocate you. As far as that goes, unless you want your mood to swiftly change, then don’t come barging in on Roseville Street. That’s not a friendly reminder, that’s a warning.
It rains almost everyday, so any plans of soaking up the sun and going to the park will sadly have to be rescheduled. Sorry not sorry for the inconvenience that just so happens every single day, should’ve known.
Cop cars frequently race down the road, keeping everyone up at late hours of the night. Crime rate is far too high for one little street, but Roseville likes to do the impossible; it’s a specialty. That’s not to say that it’s hard to deal with, it’s just routine.
Licensed heroes are people with registered superpowers that are legally allowed to fight crime and put criminals in their place. They protect people, they do what the police can’t, and they capture some of the most dangerous villains and send them off to prison. Now that’s cool and all, but they apparently don’t have enough priorities because they barely come to this part of New York to patrol. No biggie though, Roseville will just have to suffer the various muggings and assaults that take place in old decrepit alleyways. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.
They like to patrol the much richer areas, the districts that have roads practically paved with gold with how much money is sent towards them. Rich people sadly exist and use their money for nothing good. It would take a miracle to get a hero to patrol around Roseville, but it seems they’re just too caught up in being famous and giving autographs to random people on the street to actually care about real world problems. And what do you know, Roseville has a plethora of those that nobody’s taking a stand on.
But, if you wanted to lighten up your mood and get away from that depressing atmosphere, you could go to a fun little coffee shop that treats their customers with the utmost respect. A coffee shop that invites customers in warmly and lets them savour a nice big cup of swirling, creamy, refreshing coffee. A coffee shop that is astounding with customer service, and that doesn’t shy away from any criticism whatsoever. The Big Mug, a well-known coffee shop that makes friends with the customers.
“I asked for no shots of espresso, and look what you gave me—“ A sturdy, yet riled up lady with noodle looking blonde hair berated, while flailing around a throwaway cup with a plastic lid vigorously, steaming coffee swished around inside of it.
She was the only one up at the counter, every other person in the shop was either sitting down at a booth or in the midst of throwing away their trash and leaving. It was pretty peaceful— well formally was, now everyone that was previously enjoying a calm environment had to deal with a screaming lady that looked like she would tear someone’s head off. Just another typical Thursday in one of the most busy coffee shops in the area, what can you expect?
“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to kindly ask you to get your taste buds checked because I did not put any shots of espresso in that.” A boy, no older than 17 whisked out, looking just a tad bit irritated. His locks were the colour of a raven’s feathers, the smaller strands on his head poking out and all unruly like. It had stopped raining minutes prior, and now the sun that refused to poke its head around the corner appeared, glaring its bright light through the window. This resulted in the sunlight reflecting off the boy’s hair, giving it a sort of blue hue that once again resembled that of a raven.
The woman gasped, looking appalled with what she just heard. She acted as if she just got slapped, but instead of being slapped physically it was with verbal words, and she just got the short end of the stick. The words seemed to have crawled under her skin and made her scrunch up her face in resentment, make her eat a rotten apple and the expression probably wouldn’t change. She finally came back to reality from her silent sulking and pursed her lips, before parting them to retaliate— if you could call making false claims a form of retaliation. “Is that how you treat people? Would you speak like that to your mother?” She asked curtly in nothing but annoyance, scoffing menacingly at the barista who wanted nothing more than to find a flat surface to lay down on and pass out.
“My mother’s dead.” The ravenhead deadpanned, as if he had to recite that constantly. There was no emotion whatsoever in his facial features or his steel blue eyes, just a thin lined mouth and a firm posture that didn’t even think to slouch, but it was quite tempting with how bored he was getting of this. “She’d probably applaud me actually, she’s said shit much worse than me.”
The woman faltered, all of the defenses she was standing on now tipped and severed into a million different pieces as she stilled with cluelessness. Her eyes fixated on the boy ahead of her as she brought a hand up to cover her mouth, eyes shone genuine shock in them that was drastic to the snark of before.
“Oh— oh I’m so sorry, oh dear god, I shouldn’t have said tha—'' It was like day and night, she became a whole new person. Harshness from before was replaced with concern, and her face softened almost instantly. An imaginary snake had probably come and sucked out all of her bitterness, leaving her filled with pity and just the tiniest amount of sorrow for her own self. What a shocker, no water spilt on cords or wires either.
“Doesn’t bother me any.” He interrupted before she could continue on blankly, not really being able to say anything more than just giving a passive shrug. He couldn’t find it in himself to explain himself to a complete stranger that just harassed him about ‘messing up’ their drink not even a minute ago.
The weight of those words felt rehearsed, staged in a sense but without the usage of big expensive cameras and filming equipment. The kind of stage where you feel like you got played for a fool, but in this case none of it was funny and nobody was laughing. He was stoic throughout the whole thing, and he was starting to give off the hint that he didn’t wanna talk about it anymore either. Why won’t this lady just get it, he doesn’t really fancy having emotional moments and pledges not to have them either.
“I-I’ll leave you be then..” The woman walked off skittishly, footsteps rapid as she made her way to the door and pushed it open fairly quickly with only a little bit of trouble. She was embarrassed, he could tell. The way she made eye contact with no one on the way out and kept her head down, almost freaking out at first when the door wouldn’t even budge. The ground must’ve been a really interesting place to look at, because as soon as the bell overtop the door rang out its little chime, she was still training her eyes to look at the pavement of the now sweltering hot sidewalk outside the shop.
All the boy could do was just stare, elbows leant on the counter as he was leaned forward. The job was already exhausting as it is, so add on top of that having to wear an apron tied tightly around your waist that he could swear was cutting off his circulation, and a hat that wasn’t even uncomfortable but just made him look flat out ridiculous. It was one of those hats where there’s no top to it and the hair just pokes out, the logo of the shop embroidered on the front of the hat just above the brim and in the middle. He had a plain black shirt to go along with it as well, again the same usage of the logo on the shirt and nothing more, nothing less.
While he was making people coffee, he was also on a daily basis humiliating himself by putting on the outfit. He’d always supply them with a single murmured, ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer’ and moves on with his barista duties, not giving in to the mocking that some were doing every moment he got up to mingle and prod around the partly broken coffee machine. Oh yeah, one cool feature of this coffee shop is that while it was primarily coffee that was being sold, the machine itself refused to work sometimes. Not every second of the day like some would be led to believe with how the thing looks, all bulky and scraped looking with a few wires jumbled here and about. The previously rose gold colour of the machine was now washed out and faded into a more pink salmon colour that did not look any bit appealing. Nope, the thing worked just fine most days, but sometimes it just liked to be the physical representation of hell. Isn’t that just splendid? He had a customer waiting almost ten minutes for one small cup of regular coffee with no add-ons either. Shame, he could’ve gotten a tip too if the damn machine went any faster.
It was not long before he heard a voice holler out to him from the back room, and it seemed all luck was on his side finally instead of encountering another deranged lady looking to downgrade him and his barista skills. He always hated those ones too, they were his least favourite and he has encountered quite a lot of less than stellar people in his time frame of working this horrid job that somehow helps him pay rent.
They’d come in, order a seemingly simple drink with maybe one add-on that wasn’t too major or complex, and they’d wait patiently. It was the basic routine of going to the coffee machine, grabbing a throwaway cup and placing it on the ledge. He’d turn it on, watching as the steaming hot coffee practically boiled itself in the cup as it poured in. He’d tap his fingers to a rhythm to keep himself afloat, letting the machine manually mix the coffee as well. Once the machine has done everything that it possibly can, he’d take the cup and pop a lid on it. Well, not before getting into the fun part, the part that made him somewhat enjoy the job. The add-on was a shot of espresso with a medium amount of sugar, letting him be able to convey it into a stainless steel bottle allowed to cap it and shake it around. The shot of espresso got easily mixed in, as well as the sugar that was requested along with it. He’d pour it into a cup and give it over to the customer, awaiting their pay.
With a tired maneuver from behind the counter and into the back room, he begrudgingly straightened his back from the sloped position it was in and neared his way towards the door. Turning the wooden knob, it let out several squeaks as the door pulled open entirely, allowing him to walk into the dimly lit back hall.
There were a few things to note with the back room, it was a whole office and storage room all compacted into one. While there would be boxes just piling amongst the various other box shipments, there was a mini fridge and a few fold out chairs huddled together. The room was dimly lit like mentioned prior, so only a minuscule light bulb on the top of the ceiling that hung suspended from a thin chain was the only thing giving them light.
A man, wearing the same work clothes as him, sat patiently in one of the fold out chairs just staring at the wall plainly without even as much as a blink. He was fiddling with the little strings from the apron, picking and prodding at it as he looked sort of stuck in a trance. It seemed he didn’t even notice the other boy, because even the second the ravenhead walked in, no eyes of a fellow tired out employee peered over at him.
“You called?” The boy leant all his weight against the nearby wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed the other questioningly, yet tone stoic. He’s never seen this guy in all of his life and he knew pretty much everyone that worked here. It was a tightly knit together workspace, and he wasn’t even that social and still knew all of the names of the people that wasted their lives away at this shitty coffee shop.
The man shook himself out of his little reverie, slowly turning to look at the boy. “Terro, it’s good to see you!” He rushed to get up from his chair in the back of the room, coming closer into the light. He was so quick that the fold chair almost pushed into the wall behind him, this guy was having some kind of sugar high. The man was blonde, average height, and was rather physically fit. Safe to say, this man could probably crush the now deemed boy as Terro into the floor. Sounds like overkill, but he did not know this man— that’s actually a great detail to point out about all of this, he did not know who this person was and this guy was already calling him by his name.
He assumed it was his boss calling at first, not really caring all that much to remember voices. But this guy did not look like his stubby, lazed face boss that did nothing but stay at home and collect money. It raised suspicion in the teen, as he momentarily backed away to have some space to himself.
“Look man, I have bloodthirsty customers out there that are willing to chew my head off if I don’t succumb to their demands.” He referred dramatically to the outside of the room with a flail of his arm. “I would love to talk with you about how you take steroids each day to get that impossibly fit and muscly, but I’m on a time crunch.”
The man— seriously, he needed a name other than “the man”— looked at Terro curiously. “Steroids?” He buffered out.
“Just what did you want?” Maybe Terro was getting a little impatient, but he had a job that he had to attend for crying out loud.
He shook his head, a little more than confused now. “There’s going to be an investigation tomorrow, the manager wanted me to let other workers know before they come in with their big machinery and scare the living shit out of everyone.” The other responded, letting out a shallow breath.
“An investigation for what? I’m sure if there were a murder that took place here that I would kn-“ Until Terro was rudely cut off.
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“Secret Society men, they’re searching for a power source.” The blonde sounded hesitant, now with the mention of that horrid group his expression began to shift a little.
Oh. Yeah, that would make quite a bit of sense. S.S. were allegedly a group of individuals who studied the supernatural, who wanted to know every little thing about the unexplainable abilities that people seemed to have had circuiting through them since birth. At least.. that's how most people described the group.
With this in mind, the laws worked a certain way. If you were to have an ability of any kind, whether that be something as major as flying or maybe even something as little as being able to manipulate plants into growing, the ability had to be registered into the database in order to be able to use it legally. Kind of like how licensed heroes had IDs that allow them to operate, civilians have digital cards of information that allow them to freely use their gift.
If someone is caught however using an unregistered ability, they would in short be sent to prison without a word. The system is put in place to reduce crime and abuse of power, but people still seem to bypass it as easily as walking on two feet. Guess they didn’t think that one through, or maybe they just want more of an excuse to throw people in jail. Terro bit his lip, eyes wandering to just about anywhere they could in the dim room that wasn’t directly at the man ahead of him. Something within him sparked, zapping him temporarily as the numbness traversed through his lengthy body. At his side, his hand vigorously rolled into a fist, trying to dig his nails deep into his wide palm in order to break skin. Feeling anything other than the numbness trickling inside and outside of his body, and the tiny little pellets uncomfortably shooting through his body would be nice.
The pain though that he severely wished for did not come bursting in, rather it just made him feel more like jello. His legs weren’t wobbly, and his knees haven’t buckled yet, so that was a good start. Though he wouldn’t say feeling this random numb feeling was at all preferable, it was better than fainting in front of this unknown coworker of his. He held himself steady as the thoughts that he despised the most started to pang at him, filling his head with various scenarios that all had a very likely chance of hopping into reality. Maybe he was internally making a big deal about this, but the way the crates and shelves around him all started to shake and tumble said otherwise, the way even the light bulb as dingy as it was started to flicker and shake on its chain.
The crates shook rhythmically, whatever it was inside of them spiraling around and hitting every wall of the crate there was. The chain of the light bulb, it was now full on swinging instead of occasionally twitching like it was prior.
A surge of something, a match being lit and graced with a bright flame, this was that outlet of power those men would be searching for come tomorrow, and now it was here showing its faceless face around the dim room. But where was it coming from, why was the room suddenly turning itself upside down as if the entire city was going through an earthquake.
The blonde was horrified, pushing himself to the corner of the room with the deserted fold out chairs as if they’d in all of their plastic goodness would be able to protect him. He looked around as every little small thing in the room except for the chairs that he was gripping on for protection shook and dwindled from previous locations.
Terro on the other hand was up front and centre, no movement whatsoever. He was poised into stillness, not being able to comprehend the objects that were shaking by the invisible force. There are a lot of strange things about Terro, like how he lives in an apartment alone at the age of 17 and practically barricades himself in any job that’s willing to hire him so he can make money. “S-Sorry, I think my shift’s actually closing off soon.” Terro’s shift wasn’t closing off anytime soon, but he needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. His hands were sweaty, as he wiped them off on his apron and proceeded towards the door.
It was strange how Terro all year long seemed to be able to maintain being as pale as a sheet of paper. He could stand out in front of the sun and it would probably turn him paler than before knowing his luck.
His thoughts were racing and pacing, and his heart was beating so painfully against his chest that he thought it was gonna pierce through his chest and leave a big gaping hole. He had a slippery sweat coated hand that loosely struggled to turn the knob, resembling the embarrassed woman from before.
It’s weird how he isn’t even physically fit, yet could get through track team just fine. Well, long legs do tend to be handy for that sort of thing.
He finally ended up turning the knob, almost spilling himself out of the room as he caught himself on the front counter. Heading into the supply closet while he still could rather hurriedly, he breathed heavily as he untied the apron around his waist and threw both the hat and apron to the ground near the vacant mop bucket that was still full of water. Hastily grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he pushed himself right back out and back behind the counter.
It’s peculiar how the second he left the back room, the objects stopped rattling and steadied themselves as if nothing happened.
Even with the annoyed customers tapping the bell endlessly and irritating Terro even furthermore, he still shoved his way out from behind the counter and towards the exit of the shop, ignoring the people around. He needed fresh air, something that wasn’t this muggy coffee shop. Fuck the shift, maybe he will believe his fib he told to the blonde as truth.
He marched his way down a familiar sidewalk, the only thing he could hear besides his heart thumping were his feet treading along the scuffed pavement. His face was as red as a tomato, definitely a break from the pale skin. His head ached and he could already feel a migraine coming on, but he focused on getting back to his apartment.
People brushed past him, walked near him, they even tried to speak to the adolescent. But all he did was give a weak nod in their direction and keep his head straight. He walked this pathway every night coming home from work, but now with all his unwanted thoughts plaguing him it seemed much harder to remember the twists and turns that were so strictly engraved and burned into his head that they left burn marks.
For someone so cautious and balanced, he walked into more people than he ever thought he could in a lifetime. He’d apologize, likewise, and keep moving. This kept going until he saw a familiar apartment complex, and he rushed into the building.
The apartment complex was packed, practically having to swim through the lobby to get to the stairs. It was your average apartment complex, floors upon floors to the point where your legs would probably break off from walking up that many flights of stairs. As for the lobby, it had a few sitting areas and obviously the front desk that always seemed to be crowded with paperwork that was haphazardly tossed around.
Ignoring the loud ring from the door or the loud shouts and laughs from the strangers inside, he made a dash straight for the next hallway over. There, he would find a narrow staircase that led all the way up to the first floor. Being on the fourth floor meant that he just had to do a lot more walking, and in this moment he’d honestly rather do that than to be surrounded by other people. Taking a few shallow breaths he started walking up the stairs, one foot after the other. For extra measure and to calm his nerves, he’d hold onto the handle bar conveniently next to him. It only served him right, he basically ran the whole way back so no wonder his lungs would detest him at that very moment in time. With all the panting he was doing, his throat felt like sandpaper. That, but it also felt as if he had just swallowed an entire case of nails. To say the least, it was suffocating on many different levels.
He had to keep his head down to where his feet were in order to ground himself, in order to make sure that he wouldn’t pause on the last step and hurl all over himself. It was getting to the point where he felt like he was gonna pass out, but he kept pushing forward to get to his apartment door.
Soon, and thank the heavens above that probably looked down on him with disappointment, he almost collapsed in glee when he saw the familiar door number of ‘428’ a mere ten steps away from him. Jabbing his key into the slot of the door, the door flew open and graced his senses with the smell of takeout and hardly mopped floors.
Look, he was seventeen and still having to deal with school on top of a whole job. He didn’t have time to renovate and clean up around the apartment whenever he pleased. It wasn’t that messy— well, it was at least tolerable. The couches were a dark maroon colour, school books and writing material thrown around like it was nobody’s business.
To explain the smell, a definitely tampered with pizza box sat idly on the coffee table in front of the couches. It was left open slightly ajar, a few slices still not touched and just sitting there. As his steel coloured eyes peered over at the pizza box, it was like his stomach’s first response was to lurch. God, the thought of food right now would actually probably kill him. It didn’t help with the way that the pizza had been sitting there since this morning untouched, and was now probably stale and lost pretty much all of its taste. And look, maybe Terro’s just a picky eater both when sick and not sick. But cold pizza doesn’t exactly ring the ‘appetizing’ bell in his book, and he’d much rather cough up his lungs than eat a slice of pizza that would taste like ash in his mouth.
He worked around the couch and eventually over to the kitchen, hands now pressing down on the marble counter caked in crumbs and leftover junk as he panted periodically. He felt around for the sink, and once one of his boney hands felt the knob he twisted it towards himself without wasting any time. Water proceeded to gush out of the faucet in large amounts, a couple of droplets almost splashing over onto him.
Breathlessly, he leaned over the sink and stuck his head out so he could drink the water. It felt as if he were experiencing bliss as soon as the cold water filled up his mouth. He took his time with the water, almost lazing a bit from the counter before steadying himself and pulling back. That would’ve been a blissful experience had it not been straight tap water he was gorging down.
The reaction wasn’t immediate, but it definitely sunk in the second he tasted the aftertaste of something metallic, immediately leaning over the sink once again. This time however, it wasn’t to drown himself with all the water he was practically inhaling. No, this time it was to rid his stomach of the pizza he had last night for dinner.
It felt longer than it should have, but a few minutes later that felt like a whole hour in his head he was done with regurgitating. His throat burned from the acid that shot out of his system just minutes ago, tasting the bitterly, almost bloody taste of what he barfed up. It was water, just simply water. Water that finally allowed him to get rid of the hurling sensation he was feeling while racing up the steps, and racing away from that damned coffee shop.
He got some paper towels and some proper bottled water from the fridge after he was done cleaning the entire sink. “Curse New York tap water.” Terro muttered hoarsely, sitting down on the couch as he savoured the clean water he was gulping down from the plastic bottle in his hand.
He’d spent so much time emptying his stomach that he completely forgot about the situation at hand, the fact that secret society men would be investigating around the area. Even the thought itself made him wanna throw up again, but his legs didn’t show any signs of moving and quite frankly, he just wanted to calmly think over things.
Of course though, that proves itself difficult when he could potentially be arrested tomorrow. He could always just call in sick, his boss wouldn’t really care all that much anyway about his absence. But wouldn’t that raise suspicion? Terro wanted as little as possible attention drawn to him, and skipping out on the day that an investigation just so happens to occur would be quite odd. If he played his cards right though, he could stay after school and come in an hour after the investigation gets wrapped up. Yeah, that’ll work.
It was not a second later before the phone across from him and on the TV stand started to ring out. Terro admittedly could barely afford food most days, so for him to go out and buy a proper cell phone would just be asking for him to live on the streets.
And well, if there’s anyone who knows what living on the streets is like, it’s the very ravenhead that sits slumped on the couch gripping a water bottle like there’s no tomorrow. He’s had too many instances of bad foster homes whilst being in the system throughout his childhood, so he fixed that by running away at the age of sixteen. What’s so inherently wrong about that? With him being seventeen and almost a legal adult, the system wouldn’t have a claim on him for much longer. And really, what’s the harm in experiencing adulthood earlier than when most do?
The phone kept ringing, and Terro just leant his head back against the couch as he sucked in a harsh breath. Dear lord, his legs weren’t feeling it today.
The phone began to jostle from the port that it was in, shakily raising into the air and slowly towards the boy. The phone looked weighed down, almost as if it were a struggle to hover over to him. It swivelled, and at some points it almost dropped straight from the air and onto the ground.
Terro was every sense of weird. He was weird, and weird was him. But what took the imaginary cake by far was the fact that he had the ability to lift whatever the hell he pleased into the air. Crazy, I know, besides the scrawny looking frame he packed quite the punch with an invisible force that he may or may not take for granted. A force known as telekinesis.
The coffee shop isn’t haunted, or maybe it is with the fact that the place reeks of something foul. That is a complaint among several customers, so if a corpse were to randomly appear in the shop he wouldn’t question it all that much.
Strange abilities aside, the phone was still ringing. Just as his fingertips were able to brush against the phone, he yanked it down and answered right away without checking the number. That was probably a bad idea on his part, but he didn’t think all that much.
“Hello?” His sandpaper throat chimed out, cutting off as he readjusted the phone.
“Is this Terro Vasher speaking?” The voice of an older man said on the other end, a voice he knew quite well. The front desk of his school had called him.
He could only imagine what the call was for, but he led on anyway and hoped that he wasn’t getting expelled. Honestly though, he probably wouldn’t care too much if he did. “Yeah? I’m sorry, did you need something?”
“Yes, I was actually calling because you were required by your teacher Mr. Tillett to do a presentation on a science project that you have yet to hand in. He said you’ve had weeks and weeks to do so and still haven’t.” The man grumbled.
“Okay..? But why are you calling me instead of just phoning me down to the office while I’m at school?” Another ball of stress to be thrown onto the already steadily growing pile. And normally he enjoyed science, but everything else was just getting in the way.
“Just get it done, I’m not leaving any room open for argument. It needs—“ ‘Click’ sounded the phone as Terro had hung up. He’ll deal with the detention or whatever tomorrow, but his mind was everywhere but the conversation.
Honestly, he could give less of a fuck. He’d be done with school soon anyway, and he wasn’t about to throw himself into more chaos by arguing with an old man. Any other day he probably would pull out the snark and tell the man to ‘stop being a pervert’ and to ‘stop being obsessed with everything that I do’ and other things in correlation to that. But obviously, that wasn’t worth his time. With a huff, he got up from the couch and went into his bedroom.
It was a plain room with light grey walls, a bed that resembled one of a bunk bed that had the entire bottom bed removed and replaced with a work desk and computer chair. The bed had maroon coloured sheets and pillows to match the couch in the living room, barely touched as the covers were fixed up to look somewhat presentable; not like the rest of the apartment. The work desk was inhabited with belongings and weird looking gadgets, tools left astray everywhere you looked.
It definitely screamed ‘this is a teenager’s room’ as soon as you walked in.
A hand hovered over the closet door handle, before hauling it open. There was a plethora of clothes and unused items. Anything that wouldn’t be able to fit in his room was shoved in the closet, everything disorganized and out of shape. A few boxes were left untouched, some opened and some still sealed shut.
But what his eyes immediately drifted over to weren’t the boxes or any of the mismatched items that were spread about, but a.. mask?
It looked almost like a biker helmet, but without the open part in the middle and several tinted visors. It was all a shade of grey, latches at the back so that he could stuff his head into the mask and cover his whole head, with only his liquorice tuffs of hair visible.
Stepping back, the light through the window was able to glare down at the mask and reflect off the visors. It felt almost like a part of him with how carefully he held the mask, looking down at it with urgency.
His thin lined mouth that rarely subsided seemed cork up to a curve, a small smile that was followed up with a soft chuckle. He lowered the mask down, still looking down at it as he did. Some strange things happen in Roseville Street that the press isn’t open about, but one thing is for certain. A boy with black hair and a last name ending in ‘Vasher’ was the strangest of them all, no matter how many robberies could happen in one single night, one after the other.
“Guess it wouldn’t hurt to go out tonight.” He said with a shrug, peering down at his own reflection in the visors.