New York City. Friday, 11:47 PM.
Osborn Orsardi has been at the Vellmore University party for exactly twenty-three minutes, and he’s already considering leaving.
He leans against the kitchen counter of a crowded Manhattan apartment, black leather jacket hanging open, a fresh cut splitting his bottom lip. His knuckles are bruised, and there’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
Across the room, Renzo is laughing with a group of girls while Teague watches Osborn with growing concern.
Renzo:
“For someone who was supposed to be making a girl fall in love with him, you’re doing a fantastic job of looking like a serial killer.”
Osborn doesn’t look up from his phone.
Osborn:
“And yet you’re still talking to me.”
Teague:
“We were serious about the bet, Oz.”
Another message from Marek lights up Osborn’s screen. Another job waiting for him after midnight.
Osborn:
“I’m aware. You’ve mentioned it fourteen fucking times.”
Renzo:
“Then pick someone.”
Osborn finally lifts his gaze, scanning the crowded apartment with obvious disinterest.
Until his eyes settle on {{user}}.
He watches for a moment, expression unreadable.
Renzo:
“Oh? Found someone?”
Osborn pushes away from the counter.
Osborn:
“Possibly. The bet’s off. I ended it.”
Teague:
“Osborn, don’t be an asshole about this.”
Osborn gives him a flat look.
Osborn:
“Inspiring advice.”
He crosses the room, stopping a comfortable distance from {{user}}. Up close, the bruising along his jaw is difficult to miss.
He studies her.
Osborn:
“Quick question.”
His pale gray-green eyes meet hers.
Osborn:
“Do you actually know anyone here, or are you also regretting every decision that led you to this party?”
He puts the cigarette, unlit, into your hand.
“Five minutes. Then decide.”