Motherfuckers like not to be here.<br/><br/>Drayn Ophelinne had grown up alright. His mother stayed at home and his father worked out of an office overseeing a factory. Drayn didn't really remember the details, but he'd gotten out of that house just as the money was running dry and his mother had to pick up shifts at the hospital, cleaning gunk off tiled floors. The marriage couldn't keep up with the added stress, but the split was mutual, if not amicable. He still saw his mother sometimes. Lonely mothers will feed the mouth and ego of only sons. How could she not adore her son, with her light hair in a mess on top of his head all the way down to tickle his lashes? He was the image of her, when her looks had been good enough to snare the man who no longer had his own chair at work. These days he didn't want her cooking, he just wanted what she could pilfer off the shelves of her workplace.<br/><br/>The plan had been college. The debt insisted he stick to it, but after three years he'd only learned rebellion and the sanctimonious delight of acting like he owned exactly everybody. Youth's neurons still fired like rifles with long magazines, and the prettiness still clung to his bones like it was drawn on, feeding of never ending marrow. Beauty is like that, it costs and dwindles, and Drayn was a snapshot of that relationship, with shadows under his lids but a healthy glow.<br/><br/>He'd found economic relief in other's addiction. He'd kept relatively clearheaded while he turned other brains into babbling sludge. He got bigger shipments now, but he wasn't too ambitious, nothing threatening, but enough to keep a few lives under his hands. It kept him I whichever clothes he wanted and definitely made him king over the filthy parties he was summoned to. His drug of choice was always whatever you'd be willing to take for his amusement. Maybe he was more of a soul aficionado, and not necessarily a user of man-made libations. Not that he couldn't understand the allure of a good stupor.<br/><br/>Casually pushing people onto steep slopes when their lives should start had its backside too, believe it or not. He had to wrangle his orchestra of higher lowlife once in a while. He huffed and groaned about it, but usually their decay was enough to keep him interested, and let him feel refreshed when he left them. Adrien was somewhere in the middle. Had some aspirations but also some don't give a fuck. It was Adrien's charm. He got into things by leaving others. He could turn his life around for a chick and then be back selling two weeks later. Impassioned soul. Drayn was of course waiting for it to falter low enough, but Adrien seemed to have clarity when it was sorely needed. Maybe his self-destruction was not a requirement, just an effect. Good thing he didn't impart that affliction on his customers, Drayn though as he turned in to the stacked building. Sturdy, but ugly. Drayn liked it here. It was like Adrien, really, somewhere in the middle.<br/><br/>He'd come here on his shitty bike. It wasn't really his style to buy the newest foreign machine, so he stuck to some stuff off the lot. Looked good between his legs and added to his look. Today he'd tucked overly washed jeans into heavy sneakers. He wore a coat, tailored to a similarly built man, but brought it back to his usual milieu with the raggiest red hoodie he could scavenge. The natural length of his body, thanks dad, was enough to make it all stretch and hang beautifully.<br/><br/>Brown eyes rolled when Adrien didn't open. He tried the handle while pinching a filter close to his teeth. "It's fakken due day, bitch." he said as the wood parted from it's stoic frame. He waved the open flame from his metal square before going in. Sometimes Adrien's new interests were flammable. Not today. The flame found its use burning oil and leafs instead, and Drayn inhaled their death. "I know you're home, Addy. Just here to invite you to a thing on second, and get my money and give you this big ol' bag o' E. You rang for it, didn't you?" Fucking real phone call. With his mouth. Who does that?<br/><br/>The silence was somewhat concerning, since it was heavier than that of an empty home. Looked like there'd been some fun here, judging by the party favors toppled everywhere. Drayn ruffled his own hair and made clouds with his breaths. There was noises in the bedroom. Dull ones. Drayn stomped over there. Maybe he'd see Adrien in action. But when he turned and had a line of sight over the unobstructed threshold, he stopped dead. The blood on the pretty, petite creature would have been enough, but the tell-tale struggles of limbs that weren't going to prevail were blaring the macabre truth. The cigarette rolled twice in the air before the star it had at its tip shattered against the floor in the most lackluster firework.<br/><br/>Drayn drew on wrath then, and ran in. The bitch still held the knife but there wasn't really any clothes for him to conceal any more weapons in. Drayn found no real reason to be afraid, so he got to the edge of the deathbed and put the sole of the heavy sneaker to the offender's shoulder, stomping to get him off. "The FAUK, shit-cunt!" he yelled and made sure the boy was out of the way before he bent over Adrien, to see his loosing struggle. Drayn reached for the generous hole that was making Adrien's bed to a fucking carnival, but only flexed his fingers in the air. He couldn't do anything now, and it seemed the emptying eyes of possibly his favorite dealer delivered the same sentiment. It'd look bad if Adrian's blood was on him, too. "Just think of you best trip, dude. Just think." Drayn said with his mother's voice.<br/><br/>His friendliness concluded with Adrien's life, pointed by one last thrust of the dying's hips, like he was fucking something in the air before sighing and loosing the grip of his own throat. Some climax. Drayn shook his head and then turned insulted eyes at the whore who'd done this. Even with the blade Drayn didn't really have any respect for the bloodied twit. He went around the bed and was planning on standing on the boys wrist to decommission his stabbing arm, so he himself could deliver an open-handed blow to the pretty cheek. It would be a monumental backhand. Drayn wasn't a bad fighter, but he was a prolific abuser.<br/><br/>"You just cost me like five grand, you garbage cunt!" he shouted, lifting his arm for another token of appreciation. "Who the fuck are you? And why aren't I breaking your skull against the corner of the bed right now?"