(Untitled)

[immortalmistake]

[Firo is in the back of the theater brooding in a Manly Fashion. He has a bottle of absinthe in one hand and he's drinking straight from it, gagging and spitting at the taste. In his lap there's a little canvas sack; on his neck, a blood stain he missed while cleaning himself up.

He happens to be in a less than sociable mood.]

Comments

[contract_star]

[Guess who's lurking in the shadows down near the screen? For awhile he's just watching, because he's a creepy stalker and that's what he does.]

You found them. [It's not a question.]

[immortalmistake]

Found who?

[contract_star]

The ones who hurt Angela.

[immortalmistake]

Oh. Them. How'd you know?

[contract_star]

Who else's New York would she get lost in?

They're dead?

[immortalmistake]

'course.

[contract_star]

Good.