[The catwalk allows for a long, long drop. Fall over the edge and there's no coming back from being rendered a human pancake; mushy flesh with jabbing splinters of bone. Kavinsky's not interested in an end like that, so he sticks to the middle of the catwalk, like a model but for the high fashion and the precision. The white PJs were fun for a while, but he switched back to his own clothes. His sunglasses got perched on his nose, white framed, hiding drooping eyelids, but not the smeared smile on his lips.
He doesn't stop when he sees the woman; like a traincar, he only slows before coming to a brake right before her. The tablet looks neat, but it's not what catches his eye.]
Nice chains.
[He hooks a finger around his own. Singular, gold. A necklace, though so much more gangster. Like dear ol' dad.]
no subject
He doesn't stop when he sees the woman; like a traincar, he only slows before coming to a brake right before her. The tablet looks neat, but it's not what catches his eye.]
Nice chains.
[He hooks a finger around his own. Singular, gold. A necklace, though so much more gangster. Like dear ol' dad.]