|David Neale (revenir) wrote in repose,|
@ 2019-04-30 19:59:00
|Entry tags:||*log, david neale, misha bellamy|
log: the capital - misha and the revenant
Who: Misha and David
What: A re-acquaintance.
Where: The Capital
Warnings/Rating: Implied violence and gore.
The hallway between the elevator and the door to the penthouse was polished grey quartz, faintly glittering and painfully elegant. The walls were sleek white, and a table beside the elevator was accented with a still-fragrant bouquet of violets and cornflowers. His black form almost melted against the grays and blues.
His towering form had been spotted in alleyways, and drifting away from scenes of slaughter. He was becoming a myth, a name to conjure with, a story no one wanted to believe. Rivals were easier to understand, or jealous husbands. The mundane was always better than a ghost moving down the hallway of a sleek, chic apartment building, dragging a snail's trail of bad feeling and old blood. Especially a ghost with heavy, very real footsteps.
He didn't peek through the door to the penthouse he simply wrenched it open, fingertips wedged into the almost nonexistent gap between the closed panels, brute force peeling metal away from metal.
One man survived. He was slim, his tie hanging ineffectually loose, and he slipped in the blood that had pooled at the entry of the room as he lunged for the doorway. He almost sprawled through the broken doors into the hall, but he levered himself to his feet and ran for the stairway. His shoes squeaked distantly, then squealed as he lost traction again. There was a drumming impact, a swallowed sound of pain, and then more footsteps, disappearing now into silence.
The Revenant took in the room, aware on some level that there might be something of use in the bedroom. There might be something in the carefully stacked suitcases, all identical and hot pink, by the entry to the bathroom.
He stepped across a thick male body on the floor, face down. He moved away from the dead woman dressed in an expensive blue sweatshirt at her desk. She was slumped forward, spilling blood across her papers.
There was a turntable in the finely appointed room, mid-century modern to a tee, because of course there was. Perhaps a decorator had recommended it, but the large collection of vinyl on the shelf suggested otherwise. He nestled a finger under the needle and guided it down onto the record. It began to play a sad song.
He felt the eyes on the back of his head. He didn't need to turn around.
"If only I had someone to dance with."