Every step was hard, forced until finally, the hold on Luke's feet loosened once he reached the main street.  Noise, people; it all softened the intensity of the goodbye, of the unspoken something brewing in his heart.  But it did not drown that something completely, and it sat low and heavy and warm as Luke made his way home.<br/><br/>--<br/><br/>The Velvet Thorn was not the choice place of entertainment or respite for most, but for those who appreciated its certain qualities, it was a welcome sanctuary.  The club offered a variety of pleasures, some mundane and available in a glass, and some less so.  Some weren't even advertised, and certainly not made public.  But whatever someone wanted, whatever they were willing to pay for, there was a good chance they could find it within the concrete walls of that little subterranean world.<br/><br/>Gabriel wasn't proud of many things, but he was proud of the Thorn.  It was his place of business, his miniature empire, and while he was not a tyrant in his domain-- far from it-- he couldn't pretend to feel no satisfaction about the club's success with its small, but mighty clientele.  The Thorn was doing well, which meant he was doing well too, though the money didn't matter so much as the core of the business, the reason he worked.  That mattered more.  Always would.<br/><br/>He was on a break, watching the activity in the Rose Room, the main floor of the club.  It was fairly large, outfitted in the dark aesthetic the club was known for: charcoal grey walls, shining black floors layered with ornate, subtly-hued rugs in plums and rusts and indigos, the colors of a bruise.  Heavy furniture dappled the space, lacquered woods and gleaming metal, all melded with sleek leathers and luxuriant upholstry.  Carefully selected pictures adorned the walls, mostly abstractions that evoked uneasiness or interest depending on who viewed them, and other decorative items included vicious-looking vases lined with spikes and barbed wire, each filled with lilies and roses, spilling out over the sharp edges.<br/><br/>An incongruous place, mixed messages clashing together in a perfect cacophany; down the halls to either side, rooms meant for the real entertaining.  The Rose Room was pleasant enough, but it was more or less a waiting room.  Foreplay for the next, better thing.<br/><br/>The club was busy, customers and employees all mingled together in a writhing, ever-changing pattern.  Gabriel sat outside of it all, leaned back against a couch and simply watching the action, a drink in his hand though he barely touched it, less interested in the alcohol than in the people around him.  The man preferred to be an observer in life, rarely involving himself in anything outside his job, but sometimes he found himself engaged in the rest of the world outside... rarely out of choice, but still it appeared you could not be alive and be a ghost at the same time.  What a shame.<br/><br/>He brought the glass to his lips, took a sip, and let it burn slowly down his throat as his pale green gaze slid easily over the crowd, as calm and distant as a statue.  Not a bad night...  Not a bad night at all.