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In the daytime elsewhere in the City, a dark robed, hooded figure with a polished mask would have drawn undesirable attention from passerby shoppers, and the local PD would certainly question such a man- or woman- about their errands and day plans. But in the nighttime? It was not unheard of to spot a naked man sprinting down the streets shouting inane bullshit about the aliens attacking Earth, let alone nightlife attendees dressed in outrageous but dismissive costumes as they flooded themed establishments to get blackout drunk, stoned, high, or a combination thereof. Thus, nobody paid attention to the Stoic Mask as he pushed through a stalled crowd at one of the bazaar's smaller but nonetheless packed entrances. Down a darkened alley branching off from the thoroughfare, a bitter metallic haze surrounded two hunched forms with equally obfuscated minds, unaware of their surroundings. A third individual stood between their two customers and the mouth of the entrance; the Mask gave no regard for the three or their dangerous habit, instead cutting across to the next intersection where a group of street traders were setting up shop for the night. It should be straight ahead after the next right. The Stoic Mask started to pass another alleyway when he heard giggling from his left: Three- perhaps four?- young women snickered between themselves, pointing at... Me. s**t, what now? The Mask shook his head as he tried to pass the lasciviously-clad walkers of the street.

"Where you going, sugar? Betty Beth can give you a good time, Mr. Bigstuffs."

He snapped, ignoring the three shocked escorts. Putting aside ethical and or moral concerns regarding the supposedly Oldest Profession TM, the Stoic Mask certainly did not wish to contract HIV, the Big C, or God-knows whatever conditions these unsuspecting women possibly contracted from their prior "customers." No, he did not come this deep downtown for that bullshit. Instead, he made his right turn at a sparser intersection where he had a partial view of his destination: The Mask would need to cross the intersection diagonally, but an unmarked townhouse sandwiched between a converted laundromat and a sub sandwich front was locked in his sights. After crossing the intersection and continuing his passage down the terraced housing complex, the Stoic Mask stopped before the mysterious brownstone. Behind the polished mask, the wearer's silvery eyes eyeballed the dusty structure before settling on the left first floor window: Good. Seems the scare is gone. Climbing two steps at a time, the Mask finally reached a fossil of a brownstone's front door. The hooded Mask gave three firm knocks using the door's aging brass knocker when a deep masculine voice from inside muttered something incomprehensible.

"Coming! Calm your tits, I'm coming!"

A short, potbellied man with a receding hairline, stained wifebeater top, and poorly-tailored jeans opened the door. He stared at the monochromatic individual before him when something clicked. "Ah, If it isn't the Silver Marquis!"

"I told you to stop calling me that, Jozef," the Mask, known to the familiar man as the Silver Marquis, growled. "I have came to collect something of mine, or rather two packages."

"Of course! Come in, come in. Can I help you to something?"

The Stoic Mask and his familiar partner stepped inside the darkened rowhome, closing the door behind the two. The Mask's eyes squinted right as the lights flipped on, revealing a strangely welcoming interior. A patchwork couch sat at the living room's western end before a low-rise coffee table, its cushions showing perhaps fifteen to twenty years of continuous wear from this establishment's visitors. Over the two occupants' heads, a brass chandelier hung from a six-link chain with six brass arms branching radially from the central hub which held an incandescent bulb. A 36" OLED TV sat above the living room's red brick fireplace, and the living room's wallpaper appeared yellowed from years of tobacco use. "I cannot stay here for too long; I have other errands I must attend to," the Mask said, raising his fingers and wrapping them around the metal mask's surface as his other hand reached between his head and hood to manipulate the mask's velcro bands. Gently pulling the mask up and away from his face after pulling back the hood, a silver-gray heap of unkempt hair greeted the living room's other occupant. "Though, I have enough time to ask: how's business going, Jozef?" Seth asked, setting aside his facial protection on the coffee table before he plopped down on the disgusting loveseat behind him.

"Good enough, my friend." Jozef grunted, returning to the living room with two duct-taped boxes. The bottom box in his hands was about the length and width of an opened textbook; the top box was no more than half the dimensions of its bottom parent, being about as long and wide as an unusually thick shoebox. Seth watched curiously as Jozef set the two boxes side-by-side on the coffee table. "Remember when I told you last month about those officers? Turns out they were after a drug dealer behind this avenue."

"s**t," Seth shook his head and yawned, pulling the smaller box closer to him until it sat in his lap. His silvery eyes glared up at the potbellied fence. ”I still think you should change up your warrant canary system-“

”Point taken,” Jozef tearsweated, stretching open a foldable chair and setting it before Seth across the coffee table. ”Anyways… In that box, you will find all the bills bundled together. All hundreds, of course.”

”I mean it. I would hate to lose the one I distrust the least around these parts.” The silver-haired man shook his head again and began to pull the tape apart from the package’s seams. ”I will not leave until I have visually confirmed the presence of every last banknote, be warned.”

Jozef rolled his shoulders, peeking over to the locked front door. ”Take your time, dear sir.”

- - -

Mood: Annoyed
Company: A(n) (un)trusted fence
Outfit: Black cargo trousers secured at the waist by a utility belt; a billowy black hooded robe with the hood extended; black rugged boots; an expressionless, shiny iron mask with eye and mouth slits.

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The 15" laptop barely slid through, but at least everything was packed once Seth forced the two zippers shut. With that bullshit out of the way, the vampire finally let himself relax, appearing to close his eyes while listening for Jozef's footsteps from the basement. The past seven days were hectic: First, there was a fistfight between two patrons at the Arcade in the daytime. Not at night when the typical culprits were usually asshurt trading card gamers who lost their prized trump card, but during the day when- maybe- the only members present were office workers seeking a table to eat a chicken gyro purchased from the outside food truck. Before somebody could call the emergency number, however, the two belligerents fled the premises licking their own wounds, and the vampire could only match their times of arrival with a single card swipe from another patron oblivious to their environment. Aside from awakening Seth in his slumber, it took the better part of an hour to follow through that s**t and post an incident response email warning members not to permit tailgaters outside open hours.

Then there was the fact that whispers of a "James Bond"-like persona made their way to Seth. Apparently, some bullshit tabloid paper Seth had never heard of reported the presence of them at a ritzy cafe in the posh side of town. Though it was probably related to the drug bust Jozef mentioned earlier, a lingering thought in the back of Seth's head wondered... Was he being tracked? A hideous scowl marred his peaceful face: Now would certainly be the best time to diversify his contacts as the Silver Ghost. Tonight's mishap with Jozef's hot cash did not bode well for the Silver Ghost's survival. Speaking of the devil... Seth sat upright the moment Jozef's footsteps echoed from the basement stairs, his silver irises glowing under the chandelier's warm radiance. The potbellied fence made out Seth's mess on the table as he carried five clips between his fingers into the living room. "Here- here's your money."

"Lay those on the table, then."

Jozef fumed internally after he laid the five currency clips on the table. Seth picked up the first of them and pulled the bound banknotes from the metallic clip. "This is much better." Seth's eyes studied each 100 dollar note as his fingers flipped through the first stack. His expression softened after confirming the authenticity, wear, and value of the tenth bill: At least these banknotes were unlikely to draw anywhere near the same amount of attention as before. "Thank you, Jozef," the pale man murmured, passing through the contents of the second and third banknote clips. Jozef stayed silent while Seth counted: That box of fresh currency had lingered at this place for the better part of two months since the box's previous owner traded it for something Jozef could not care less about. In short, tonight's deal was the shittiest zero-sum deal, if the box of currency Seth disregarded was worth anything: At worst, the fence was getting scalped by his own customer. When Seth started to count the final clip of money, Jozef hung his head. Tonight may very well be a financial loss for the coconspirator in this money laundering operation.

”I believe I have counted out all five thousand dollars,” Seth began, stuffing the final cash clip into a pocket on his right thigh. Jozef merely stared at the ground as the Silver Marquis finished stuffing his pockets with tonight’s loot. ”You have recovered well, but I’m afraid this may be the last time we meet, Jozef.” The vampire glanced to where his human contact sat. Again, Jozef did not speak, but instead shook his head ever so slightly. "Take this as a lesson: Your customers DO care about their own hide. It's about time you do the same for yourself." Picking up the iron mask from besides himself, Seth slid the polished cover over his face and secured the velcro bands tightly. Once again, the Stoic Mask was now present in the room, its true identity even more obscure after it flipped the hood over its metallic gray hair. "Have a good night, now."

"Just get out of my house, and do not ever return," the fence snapped, but his face was still glued to the nasty gritty floor. The Stoic Mask shook their head, slipping both arms through the compact backpack's straps as it stood up. "As you wish." The hooded figure stepped past the sloven man and through the living room exit into the landing. "I wish you well-"

The Stoic Mask did not finish his sentence, for something animalistic snapped in the man left behind in the living room. The masked man heard a sudden slew of footsteps coming up behind him, and without looking he raised his left knee and thrust his leg in a solid rearward strike against somebody's nether regions. A familiar screeching <********> more than confirmed the Stoic Mask's suspicions, and he turned: Jozef had hit the floor curled into a fetal position, his eyes shut tight and face contorted in agony. Sighing, the Stoic Mask grabbed the fallen man by the throat with his left hand. "Is this how you treat your customers?" Jozef found himself hanging by the neck with his feet an inch above the foyer carpet. Through his eye slits, the Stoic Mask saw Jozef's face turning blue, unable to breathe or speak. "I get it. That box of cash you gave me was never meant to be handled immediately. Learn this, however, before somebody else decides to do worse than I ever will: Don't get angry at your customers when you must eat a loss. I'm sure that was all the untainted cash you've had. I also understand that you are struggling from the state of your place. However, I will also make it clear that I. Do. Not. Care-"

The potbellied man already passed out from lack of air. The Stoic Mask let the limp body strike the carpeted floor of the dingy brownstone after he released his grip on Jozef's throat. He'll live, the man figured, catching a glimpse of the man's rising and falling chest. Turning to the front door, the Mask stepped over a pile of discarded rags from earlier and opened the door just wide enough so that a casual observer could not see the commotion that happened behind literal closed doors. Of course, seeing as how the pedestrian traffic on this particular street had slowed to a trickle after rush hour ended, the masked man did not feel terribly anxious, and so he set off to reverse-trace his path, following the sidewalk down towards the avenue he had passed through nearly an hour earlier. In a matter of minutes, the Stoic Mask disappeared among a growing throng of late night shoppers, the brownstone apartment and street not showing a single trace of his presence.

- - -

Mood: Anxious
Company: Passed-out (ex) fence, strangers
Outfit: Black cargo trousers secured at the waist by a utility belt; a billowy black hooded robe with the hood extended; black rugged boots; an expressionless, shiny iron mask with eye and mouth slits.

"I only want to hurt you...and what I want, I get.

____________________________________________________________

Location: Market Place
With: Some b***h
Status: Amused
____________________________________________________________

I'm aiming to continue, so consider me a threat."

"I only want to hurt you...and what I want, I get.

____________________________________________________________

Location: Market Place
With: Some b***h
Status: Amused
____________________________________________________________

I'm aiming to continue, so consider me a threat."