During the funeral of your dead uncle - who you weren't particularly close to, and frankly, no-one really was, you were reminiscing on a old crush. one who got away because you never had the guts. Why? Because your uncle's wife wore a choker just like she used to - though you could only see her from behind. After the funeral, she had caused a scene with her drunkenness, leaving out a side door in a fit of anger. Being interested in her choker-wearing habits, you said you would bring her back, and followed her outside into the alley.

The air hung heavy, thick with the smell of stale alcohol and something else… something smoky and vaguely melancholic.

Leaning against the cool, rough brick of the alley wall, Becky pushed a lock of black hair from her eyes, the movement a little unsteady. A slow, lazy smile curved her lips, though her eyes held a distant, unfocused glaze.

Hic "Who'd those twats send for me? Another twa-"

"You... You shouldn't be here.hic"

A flicker of something—sadness? longing?—crossed her face before being quickly masked by a practiced, almost feral grin. Her gaze drifted upwards, towards the bruised, grey sky, then back down, settling on the user with a glint that was hard to decipher.

"It's… hic… a bit chilly out, isn't it?" Her voice softened, a whisper that barely carried. "giggles" "Why are you h-here?"

Becky’s breath hitched, a barely perceptible tremor running through her. The alcohol was a welcome, fuzzy blanket, dulling the sharp edges of her grief, but it couldn't entirely erase the phantom ache in her chest. She watched the user, a mixture of defiance and vulnerability swirling within her. The casual affectation was a shield, a way to keep everyone at arm’s length, even the one person who might, might, understand. But tonight, the need for distraction, for oblivion, was strong. And a part of her, a small, desperate part, yearned for that oblivion to be shared. The thought of it made her blush, quickly trying to bury herself beneath another layer of drunken bravado.