AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian listened intently as she laid out her story - calmly, clearly, with a level of vulnerability that felt far more valuable than any currency exchanged within the velvet shadows of Velour. He didn't interrupt, didn't comment, just let her words fill the space between them. What mattered more was that she was speaking now. And he knew exactly why. It was his own quiet disclosure earlier - just a sliver of truth, deliberate but unforced - that had prompted her openness. He smiled to himself, inwardly, with the practiced discretion of a man used to playing long games and subtle hands. She had taken the bait, not because it was manipulative, but because it was human. Real. He hadn't told her much, just enough to remind her that people like him, the ones who usually watched from the high windows of life, weren't untouchable. That they bled too, once. He had heard similar stories before. Countless, really. Some delivered with tears, some with rage, and others in numb, robotic detachment. But hers had landed differently. There was something sharper beneath her composure, a rawness that didn't ask to be pitied or fixed. And the way she responded to his quiet revelation - it wasn't sympathy. It was recognition.
Still, her final question had caught him off guard. It lingered uncomfortably, carving a slow burn into the edges of his conscience. He hadn't seen it coming, or rather, he hadn't expected her to aim that precisely. It wasn't the kind of question you could parry with charm or deflect with a joke. It was the kind that landed and stayed. He rose, pulling another thousand dollars from his money clip without fanfare, and set it down on the cushion between them with intent.
"Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you."
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. There were rules in this world, yes, but some moments didn't require decoding. She would understand, or not. That part wasn't up to him. As he moved to the curtain that marked the line between the private booth and the rest of Velour's curated illusion, he allowed himself one final glance - not of her, but of the scene itself. The hush, the low thrum of music, the ambient glow that made every face look softer, more mysterious. This place had always been about escape. For everyone.
"I hope to see you again. Just not here. Out in the real world. You have my number."
Then he was gone. Slipped through the veil and back into the machine that carried him - town car, driver, the city melting behind tinted glass. The world returned to its default mode: muted, polished, transactional. By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the city was deep into its nightly performance of light and silence. He removed his jacket, the weight of the night still hanging in the lining. In the dim kitchen, he poured himself a drink - something expensive, aged, meant to soothe men with too much time to think. He sat, sinking into the low leather of his sofa, glass in hand, staring out at the skyline that had once felt like a destination but now felt like wallpaper. Delilah's question returned, clear and unrelenting.
"When you lie awake at night in that nice house with all your bills paid and no one left to save… do you ever ask yourself what's left? Do you ever wonder if this is really it for you? You said you fight so you don't feel powerless. But power doesn't keep the dark out. Not really. So I want to know… What does winning look like for you, Adrian? Not in boardrooms. Not in strategy decks or PR headlines. I mean you. Alone. When no one's watching."
It had been a long time since anyone had asked him a question that didn't come with an agenda. A longer time still since someone had asked one that made him feel seen. Most people looked at Adrian and saw acquisition. Leverage. Access. They didn't ask about the nights. About what silence sounded like when you'd outmanoeuvred everything and everyone except yourself.
What did winning look like? Once, he would've had an answer. It would have been efficient and airtight - metrics, milestones, capital raised, empires built. But now? In the hush of the evening, surrounded by modern art he hadn't chosen and furniture no one ever used, the answer eluded him. Because the question wasn't about success. It was about peace. And if he was honest, brutally so, then no - power hadn't kept the dark out. Not really. It just lit up the corners for a while. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. It swirled slowly, as if it too was reluctant to settle. Her words refused to leave him. Not because they hurt, but because they revealed something he hadn't admitted, not even to himself.
That somewhere along the way, he had mistaken movement for meaning. Control for purpose. That maybe, just maybe, winning had stopped being a destination and become a disguise. He took a slow sip and let the silence do its work. He didn't have an answer yet. But he knew the question mattered.
Still, her final question had caught him off guard. It lingered uncomfortably, carving a slow burn into the edges of his conscience. He hadn't seen it coming, or rather, he hadn't expected her to aim that precisely. It wasn't the kind of question you could parry with charm or deflect with a joke. It was the kind that landed and stayed. He rose, pulling another thousand dollars from his money clip without fanfare, and set it down on the cushion between them with intent.
"Use that to buy something for you. Not for bills, not for college tuition—you."
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. There were rules in this world, yes, but some moments didn't require decoding. She would understand, or not. That part wasn't up to him. As he moved to the curtain that marked the line between the private booth and the rest of Velour's curated illusion, he allowed himself one final glance - not of her, but of the scene itself. The hush, the low thrum of music, the ambient glow that made every face look softer, more mysterious. This place had always been about escape. For everyone.
"I hope to see you again. Just not here. Out in the real world. You have my number."
Then he was gone. Slipped through the veil and back into the machine that carried him - town car, driver, the city melting behind tinted glass. The world returned to its default mode: muted, polished, transactional. By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the city was deep into its nightly performance of light and silence. He removed his jacket, the weight of the night still hanging in the lining. In the dim kitchen, he poured himself a drink - something expensive, aged, meant to soothe men with too much time to think. He sat, sinking into the low leather of his sofa, glass in hand, staring out at the skyline that had once felt like a destination but now felt like wallpaper. Delilah's question returned, clear and unrelenting.
"When you lie awake at night in that nice house with all your bills paid and no one left to save… do you ever ask yourself what's left? Do you ever wonder if this is really it for you? You said you fight so you don't feel powerless. But power doesn't keep the dark out. Not really. So I want to know… What does winning look like for you, Adrian? Not in boardrooms. Not in strategy decks or PR headlines. I mean you. Alone. When no one's watching."
It had been a long time since anyone had asked him a question that didn't come with an agenda. A longer time still since someone had asked one that made him feel seen. Most people looked at Adrian and saw acquisition. Leverage. Access. They didn't ask about the nights. About what silence sounded like when you'd outmanoeuvred everything and everyone except yourself.
What did winning look like? Once, he would've had an answer. It would have been efficient and airtight - metrics, milestones, capital raised, empires built. But now? In the hush of the evening, surrounded by modern art he hadn't chosen and furniture no one ever used, the answer eluded him. Because the question wasn't about success. It was about peace. And if he was honest, brutally so, then no - power hadn't kept the dark out. Not really. It just lit up the corners for a while. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. It swirled slowly, as if it too was reluctant to settle. Her words refused to leave him. Not because they hurt, but because they revealed something he hadn't admitted, not even to himself.
That somewhere along the way, he had mistaken movement for meaning. Control for purpose. That maybe, just maybe, winning had stopped being a destination and become a disguise. He took a slow sip and let the silence do its work. He didn't have an answer yet. But he knew the question mattered.