[6:56PM - KOREATOWN]
Night time is starting to unveil itself across the city skyline, as dusk nearly finishes it’s gloss over. Streetlights, and neon signs start to flicker on, as the streets get ready for the next period of it’s day.
H3-DES is a dense city, old and new architecture all clustered together. Koreatown stretched long and narrow between two towering developments, a corridor of light and noise.
Clumps of groups littered the streets, from young wannabe somebody’s chasing intoxication like it was status, blue collars coming straight out of the office and into the bars and adult entertainment parlors, gang affiliates lingering at corners, patient, watching for someone careless enough to slip. They are quite honestly living fauna for this enviornment.
Amidst all of the noise, Roxanne maneuvers the crowds, dodging the swaying and tipsy corporate men. She now moves in a different pair of combat boots, a bit higher up the shin, white base with contrasting black laces and bottom soles. From her shoulders down to the top eyelets of her boots, she was wrapped in a white oilcloth poncho. Bold, yes — but in this character-diverse part of H3-DES, it barely earned a second glance. Roxanne slips through into a narrow alleyway beside the slightly rundown restaurant, Eun-baem, looking around until stopping her eyes towards a rusted escape ladder.
Climbing about 6 stories, The city air was cooler there, thinner somehow. A figure stood several meters away, already facing her — waiting. A high ponytail looking down at Roxanne.
One eye watched Roxanne’s approach, sharp, elegant, almost amused. The other was concealed beneath a matte black eyepatch, rigid, and structured yet deliberate against her skin. The contrast only sharpened her beauty.
Like Roxanne, she wore white, but hers a cropped motorcycle jacket, layered overtop a black corset top. Black leather pants down to black high heels. There was an aura about her. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just controlled.
It didn’t intimidate Roxanne.
This was Onyx.
Once an adversary, an opposition to a version of Roxanne she no longer claimed. Now, pretty much a colleague.
“Y’know. I would not have minded if you just left me on seen, but not opening up the messages at all. Apart of me thought you wouldn’t show this time,” Onyx said followed by a smirk.
“But I did, as always,” Roxanne replying back.
Both of them having a silent stare off at one another, bantering by just their eyes, then Onyx turning her head back towards the ledge of the roof; that’s all she’ll need for catch-up. She slowly walking idyllically near the North side of the rooftop. not annoyed, just acknowledging. Whatever needed to be said passed between their eyes. She follows closely behind Onyx in stride.
“It’s always the ones that seem to have a promising road ahead,” Onyx said, her voice being carried lightly over the hum of the city.
“Yet they keep pushing for some sort of validation. Something to soothe whatever demented ego they keep tucked away.”
Reaching the ledge, leaning forward just enough to look down, careful with her silhouette.
He’s looking to gain favor”, she added. “Sheppard’s coming to them with gifts supposedly, or so I heard.”
Roxanne now also near the ledge side, yet with visible distance, tilting her head slightly, eyes scanning below.
“Drugs? Hardware? Weapons?” Roxanne asks.
“Not exactly sure yet, but knowing his current status, I don’t think he’s got cred’ like that yet.” Onyx stated.
“Sure, he’s good friends with the Mayor’s kid, but he’s still just a wannabe hotshot, looking for the door in.”
While still facing below, Roxanne gives a subtle side eye to Onyx.
“Even after the years you spent in that ‘club’, no inkling towards what he might be cooking?” The word lingered — club. Lightly delivered. Intentionally placed. A jab mixed in with a question to the matter, a dig at Onyx’s past life. A former lieutenant in the city’s biggest crime family surely must have seen these types of rituals, tributes, and strategic gestures a hundred times.
Onyx let out a low, muffled chuckle, unbothered by the remark which she knew was meant to be a bit of an attack to her, still. “Not a clue.” she sarcastically said back. The city below them, restless and electric.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Roxanne scanning the people below, scanning below for the person of interest in a street clustered, horns honking, neon energy glowing, a scene that would be accurately described as overstimulating. Amid all of the noise, she noticed of a pair walking through in their own quiet orbit— hands linked, laughing — Roxanne didn’t realize she’d stopped tracking movement until the wind shifted against her poncho. For a fraction of a second, the rooftop disappeared.
An afternoon on a different rooftop, a nostalgic sky with a warm yellow tint to the memory.
Overhanging powerlines, a retro jukebox playing a mellow R&B track that sets one on the vibe of ease and rest, panning to a pair of worn sneakers and blue denims walking over, rolled up sleeves — In one hand 3 aluminum cups stacked up, and the other a metal pitcher filled with orange juice. A smile that carried grace and elegance. No blackened scleras, eyes that read kindness and poise. Roxanne placed down the pitcher and cups on a small table, and sat comfortably down into a lawn chair.
Someone next to her — faceless now, but warm. Words blocked by a muffled overlay, yet she remembered it was one of surprise with the choice of orange juice, followed with laughter. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach ache in a good way.
There had been no Dark Code then. A person that only looked and moved with grace. No careful distance in her voice. The version of her in it lighter.
A car horn below breaking through the air. The rooftop rushed back in, subtle wind, concrete underfoot, Onyx’s silhouette a couple meters away idly scanning the ledge.
She adjusted the collar of her poncho. Eyes staring downwards, snapped out of reminiscing, whoever she was before is gone, but now a jaded individual. “Focus,” she muttered internally, bringing her back to the objective at hand.
Thirty minutes in H3-DES didn’t pass quietly — it pulsed. Sirens flared. Music bled out on the streets. A drunk argument sparked, then dissolved into laughter.
Onyx remained near the ledge, weight balanced effortlessly on one heel, scanning with patient precision. Not anxious. Not bored. Just waiting.
Roxanne leaned back against a ventilation unit, arms folded beneath the white poncho. Her gaze drifted, but never unfocused. Tracking movement the way others might track conversation — faces, posture, mannerisms flaring up.
Down below on the street level, a group of five korean men, varying in physical characteristics, approached to the entrance of a club lounge and stood idly waiting. The notable thinner one of out of the group kept checking his reflection in a darkened storefront window. Another bigger guy slowly pacing loosely behind deliberately.
Black jackets. Gold body mods. Notable tatts on some of the fellows, most probably indicating they must be covered.
“The Gold Lake Boys,” Onyx muttered, observing from above.
Then just relatively fifty meters away, a black SUV stops at the corner under the traffic light, the passenger doors open up, two ladies step out, a Caucasian and Asian women entering the street scene, with one hands in grasp with a young man marking the exit of one more passenger.
A fully black outfit, predominantly that of a long dark wool coat, adorned with subtle chrome chain and pin on the left breast. A polished individual and seemingly composed. Short, slicked back hair, and a smile that pushes some flare or charm. Notable qualities that playboy types like to portray their images as. This was Sheppard.
“That him?,” Roxanne asked softly. Looking over to Onyx in which she gives a slight head tilt down, “hmm.”
The two women seemingly chatting with one another, with Sheppard in between, expecting a fun night ahead of them. They approached the cluster of gangsters waiting beneath the flickering sign of the club entrance, exchanging greetings, and eventually let inside by the bouncer outside.
