9th floor, right at midnight.
( ooc: Judging by the Shane meeting up with Boyd afterward, I'm guessing this timeline is right? This is the same night as Trenton getting knifed up, only that happened much earlier? Right? Idk.)
It wasn't like Trenton to be holed up in P4 for any duration of time. Not unless he was in the depths of some coke binge that just wouldn't quit, you know the kind. Or maybe if he had some really interesting company. In those cases, he might not see the outside world of the sunshine for a good 48 hours. But just him? By himself? No good.
After what had gone down with The Knife Man earlier this evening, Trenton had really considered staying put. It was no stretch of the imagination to say that venturing outside his own door was a terrifying notion. But, at the same time, he wasn't comfortable sitting and staring at the puddle of blood in his living room. Trenton was feeling pent up and agitated inside the penthouse walls. He'd taken a shower and rinsed all of the blood from his skin. Afterward, in the mirror, he noted the damage. His chest was clean, but his side was a deep and healing pink of scar tissue that seemed to grow paler with every minute that passed. He pulled on some clean clothes; blue linen pajama pants and a white tee. Then, he paced.
There was too much to think about, and Trenton didn't want to think about anything. He didn't want to go out, but he didn't want to stay in. The only middle ground was to not be alone somewhere inside the building. Shiloh was gone. Luca was gone. In this moment, Trenton realized how little friends he had left in the building.
He had no one here. Sure, he had a dozen sycophants across town and those girls on the beltway. But in the building? Who did he know? Who was he on good terms with? He'd even pushed Isobel away.
He hadn't formed a concise plan, but Trenton left his penthouse and started for the stairwell with one destination in mind. 906. Even if most of his consciousness was shifting in that moment, everything was a whirlwind focus on 906. He didn't notice the change. The way modest pajama bottoms turned black and fitted. A deep blue vest materialized over his shirt, and the gaps filled in with black, long sleeved silk. A bonewhite cravat noosed his neck, and when he stopped to knock on 906, he didn't lift his hand. Instead, it was a familiar, sterling handled cane that tapped her door. Churches around the city chimed midnight, and Dorian was pleased to be out again. So invigorated, so denied that he felt starved.