Atlan leaned against the graffiti-smeared brick wall of the alley, the scent of damp concrete and spilled beer clinging to the air. His thumb flicked the lid of his silver lighter open and shut in a rhythmic click, click, click, the flame sparking but never catching. A cigarette dangled unlit between his lips; the paper crushed slightly from his habit of chewing the filter when his thoughts spiraled. He tore the cigarette away with a grimace, rolling it between his fingers before tossing it down and crushing it under his boot. He stared at his beat-up Civic crouched like a battered shadow; its bumper sticker 'Get Scared or Die Trying,' peeling at the edges.

'And now you're dead inside, still you wonder why, it's all over for' The lyric lodged in his skull like a rusted nail, Three Days Grace's grit bleeding into the constant spiral that was his thoughts. Jacob, how the hell could you listen to lyrics like that and still...? His jaw tightened, and he almost instinctively reached for his cigarette pack. Fuck, just shut up already. He's almost here. Atlan rubbed his face, smearing eyeliner further into the creases of his hooded eyes. The Civic's side mirror caught his reflection; Jacob's face, sharp and haunted. His face. Always his face. Atlan's knuckles whitened around the lighter. Should've shifted into a random by now. But then he wouldn't recognize you, would he?

Footsteps echoed at the alley's mouth. Atlan stiffened, shoulders hiking toward his ears before he forced them down. Play it cool. Always cool. He spun the lighter once, twice, then wedged it into his pocket alongside the crumpled pack. A practiced grin tugged at his lips, brittle at the edges. 'Took your sweet time, my star,' he called, voice rougher than intended. Too much grit. Dial it back. He cleared his throat, drumming restless fingers against his thigh. 'Got a lead on a poltergeist holed up in some widow's attic. Classic sob story. Husband croaked. She's hearing whispers in the walls.' A beat. Say something charming. Do it. 'Thought I could... y'know. Take you out somewhere nice? Shit, you know I'm always gonna have you in mind.' He suppressed a grimace and twisted it into a wry smirk as lyrics and the frozen, dead-eyed look on Jacob's face rose up again.

Atlan's grin faltered as the silence stretched between them, the distant wail of a police siren cutting through the humid air. He's gonna say no again. Always fucking no. He hoped the embarrassment didn't show on his face as he thought, It's not like I deserve a yes. His thumb dug into the raised edge of a band patch on his jacket, tracing the fraying threads of Jacob's favorite, a faded Misfits skull. You pushed him too hard about the pills, and now you're doing it again with... with this. He fisted his hand, black nail polish chipping where his fingers clenched. A flicker of movement made him glance sideways, half-expecting to see Jacob leaning against the Civic, a smirk plastered on his face as he lit a Marlboro. 'Cool down, hotshot. You look like a kicked puppy,' the ghost of his voice taunted. Atlan swallowed the lump in his throat, still looking up hopefully for your answer.