#chibi Con knows all. Definitely got refined to some extent over the years

[constantinepayne]

☟

Send me ☟ for my muse to turn back into their younger self, with only the memories that lead up to that age.

A toothpick seesaws, clenched between the twin rows of teeth with the tongue dipping and rising at the back end. It's an absentminded gesture as the ten-year-old has planted himself at the edge of the unfamiliar couch. Crisp, white coloring has tennis shoe arches pressed to it. In spite of the Tribeca apartment going unrecognized, Constantine has already made it his home on someone else's dime. It's probably just another place he's been dumped at by Paulina Payne, the submissive wench of the Executive Director that pretends to be his mother only when it matters.

In front of him, the screen against the wall blares while to the right of him shows one of the best views of Manhattan that money could buy. Jaded already, the skyline is lost, barely noticed by the peripheral vision, while attention centers on the television. That is until a hand flies up in annoyance, taking the toothpick with it.

"This is bullshit. Acceletrex was at fifteen yesterday, now it's fifty-five? The Hell is this?"

The remote is pressed, flipping away from CNBC to land on another news organization, taking note of the date that is immediately announced in the bottom right corner of their graphics. The brunet's neck cranes back, taking in the information in silence for a long pause before the youthful brow furrows.

"That still doesn't explain anything. This is crap."

Unfazed, the device is dropped on the cushion before jumping off, heading to the kitchen before another's appearance makes itself known. An eyebrow rises, looking over at the stranger casually.

"You should really get some pants on. Flashing a minor isn't going to get you anywhere, but looking forward to what the price for silence is these days."

By the time the fridge door opens, the other is out of sight, hurried out to get dressed while the bottles of opened alcohol are pushed aside to get at the remnants of the orange juice. A chance to pour out its contents fails, looking up to finally catch a familiar sound tugging at his ear: the electronic ping of the private elevator.

The metallic sheen is seen sliding back from the hall, revealing the visitor. Blond hair, slate blue eyes, standing inside the small space as the young resident looks back.

"Who the Hell are you?"