ardenmoore

[ardenmoore]

"Wrestling a fucking bear on a yacht," she repeated, the wryness in her voice undercut by a slight hint of amusement. "if that's what you come up with on the fly, I'd hate to be on the receiving ends of one of your alibis." It struck her then, the strange ease in their stride—odd, considering the tension still pulling tight at their frames. Her hand brushed against him, felt the way his muscles held firm, coiled like he hadn’t quite let his guard down. The weight in her own shoulders suddenly felt smaller. Almost forgettable.

Arden let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding the second they made it to her car, peeling herself away from him as she popped the trunk open. The lid lifted with a groan, revealing the mess inside, but her attention went straight to the hard-shell first aid kit shoved to the side. She cracked it open without ceremony, fishing out a thick roll of gauze before glancing back at him.

“And just so we’re clear,” she said, tone flat but deliberate, “I wouldn’t be helping if I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself.” A pause, adding then, "survival of the fittest and shit." Arden's eyes flickered down to the wound at his side before returning to León's face. "Now, am I taping this on, or do you wanna keep twisting around like an idiot and make it worse?”

León snorted, just barely. A ghost of a sound, almost a laugh if you squinted hard enough. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was considering a smile, but it never quite landed. Still, her comment got through—that dry, deadpan humor sliding under his defenses in a way that didn’t set off the usual alarms. He didn’t say anything at first. Just moved, slow and stiff, toward the car. Like every step was a decision.

“You better make it look like an accident,” he muttered. “If I end up with a toe tag and bloodstains on my jeans, at least make ‘em say I died doing something impressive. Like taking down a cartel. Or… wrestling a fucking bear.” He didn’t look at her when he said it, but there was something looser in the way he walked now. Not unguarded—never that—but the sharp edges had dulled slightly, just enough to pass for something close to trust.

When she reached out, her hand landing lightly on his arm, he hesitated. Not long. Just a flicker. Like he didn’t know what to do with the contact. Like the weight of it somehow hit harder than the knife. But he didn’t pull away. His arm stayed where it was, muscle tense beneath her touch, but he didn’t shake her off. If anything, his steps synced to hers a little easier after that, like the silence between them had shifted from standoff to something else. Something quieter. Shared.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said after a moment, voice low and dry, “I’m letting you help because I’m bleeding. Not ‘cause I need you.” Another beat. “But… thanks.” Almost too quiet to hear. Like the words had to scrape their way up. Like saying them cost something.

And they did.

[ardenmoore]

"Not when you're offering me wine, no," she tossed back, shoulders starting to relax ever so slightly as she settled in. "That is reassuring. How's your aim these days?" It was oftentimes difficult for Arden's body to distinguish when she was in the presence of friends verses adversaries -- sure, the latter came much easier, far more frequently, but even those she found herself closest to she found she'd needed to constantly remind herself she was in good company. That there was no danger to be found. Thankfully, Zeina had become rather good -- and quick -- at disarming her.

The brunette sheepishly took the glass then, taking a quick sip immediately once it was placed in her hands -- to calm her nerves maybe? To steel herself for her a necessary evil (in her mind) that she felt compelled to endure from time to time? Vulnerability had never come easy for the chef, even less so following Ozan's funeral and everything that came after, but life had been such a mess lately and Arden's mind had been entirely scattered by the events of the last few months -- she could practically feel it bubbling up. A shrug pulled at her shoulders, quick and noncommittal, her eyes briefly flickering to meet her sister-in-laws knowing gaze before she averted her own once again.

"Do you ever think you'll be able to move on?" she asked then, bluntly, figuring it best to start with a small rip of a band-aid. She knew Zeina understood who she was referring to.

Smile curled at the corner of her lips, an easy explanation as to why she'd let her in so far without any real kind of challenge. "You're the only one with a key and I figure you're not trying to kill me." Expression turned wry for a moment, teasing slightly before she opts for a more reassuring route. "But if it makes you feel any better I went to the shooting range the other day." It was far from her favourite pastime but she considered it a good use of her time if it brought anyone in her life a little more comfort. And the gun in question was within arms reach but just far enough away for it to be out of her mind until she needed it. Out of sight, mostly out of mind.

Head shook quickly before Arden could find some kind of excuse to leave. "No, not anyone specific anyway." It wouldn't have been entirely out of the ordinary for someone to turn up unexpectedly, either because they needed her in a professional capacity or for the open invitation that was extended for dinner to anyone who knew her. Glass was extended out towards her sister in law, gaze travelling familiar features to see if she could guess what might have kept her away this time. Finding nothing obvious she asked, trying to put a stop to her mind racing a mile a minute and filling with dozens of terrible scenarios. "How have you been?" The question was light enough but they both knew that Zeina wasn't about to let some half-baked answer slide. She'd learned not to push but that didn't mean she forwent all expectations.

[ardenmoore]

Arden let out a sigh, long and unapologetically irritated, making no effort to mask her disdain. Subtlety had never been her thing, especially when someone was already grating on her nerves—though whether she was in the mood to humor bullshit or pick a fight just to bleed off the edge of a bad day was anyone’s guess. Either way, she hadn’t walked off. “Something that doesn’t scream bloody murder every time it hits twenty miles an hour would be a start,” she muttered. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, it was a car that treated the highway like a stage and its exhaust like a damn spotlight. “I think you and I have very different definitions of the word ‘tact.’”

Her brow quirked when he introduced himself, tongue clicking skeptically . “I don’t usually make it a habit to. Oh -- is that so?” Her tone shifted slightly, curiosity curling into the edges of her words. “How long?” She didn’t press it, not directly, but the implication sat heavy in her chest. If he was telling the truth, maybe he’d known her husband back in Turkey. Maybe he hadn’t. Either way, that was a thread she wasn’t about to start pulling in public. Dark eyes narrowed, studying him for a beat too long. Then finally—grudgingly—she gave in. “Arden.”

She reminded him of so many of her gang members. Did Kurtlar have some kind of test with passing to join their ranks where the pricklier you were the better your chances were? Instead, Kerem kept his charming smile sitting comfortably on his lips. He could tell she did not like him, but alas it was a feeling he was quite comfortable and content with. Many were not susceptible to his charms, but it never bothered Kerem at all. "And if you say asshole-mobile, what find car do you recommend then? One that will not come with such a label from you?" He inquired jovially. He could certainly make room in his vast garage for one more toy after all. "No, but I thought some tact and subtlety was for the best." He grinned, unbothered by her sharp tone. "I told you earlier - to introduce myself. Yours is not a face I am familiar with. Do you not listen?" Kerem let his gaze roam over her fully. "Kerem Tüfekçi at your service. I have a long history and partnership with your organization." He gave a small bow. "And you are?"

[ardenmoore]

She’d been in a strange headspace since the yacht party — caught in the crosscurrent of complicated feelings and an uncharacteristic swell of self-loathing. Arden had always struggled to connect with herself, to name what she wanted, needed, or craved — even before Oz went missing and the whole framework of her life shifted beneath her. Maybe it was the timing. Maybe that little run-in with Nico had shaken her more than she was willing to admit. Or maybe — and this was the part she hated most — she was starting to realize she might have real feelings for León. Ones that lingered, even after everything that had happened between him and Aslan. Ones that could come with consequences (whether real or imaginary) she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

So, Arden had done what she always did when in the midst of having a moment -- she withdrew. A routine that even Zeina was undoubtably used to but really didn't deserve. Thankfully, her sister in law had come to learn that it more often than not wasn't personal, evident by the way she managed to saunter in and be met with something akin to normalcy. "You have terrible survival instincts, you know." She remarked wryly, tossing her jacket onto the back of the couch before joining the other woman in the kitchen, “Uh – sure.” Tongue poked at the inside of her cheek, leaning her hip against the counter with her arms crossed. “Unless you’re waiting on company or something. I can come back.”

Zeina's place with Arden Moore @ardenmoore

Throughout their years of knowing one another Zeina had learnt the hard way that her sister in law could be somewhat hard to pin down. Something she'd struggled to adjust to when her natural instinct was always to pull everyone closer and grasp them tightly. But Arden had resisted, not out of anything but her nature. They'd struck up a compromise long ago, unspoken but still binding. Zeina allowing space by her standards and Arden allowing closeness by hers. She'd learned to wait for her sister in law to come to her, knowing that she would in her own time.

Bottle was in her hand, pouring herself a large glass of wine after a day that had thrown complications at her, taxing her abilities. She stopped mid-pour when she heard the door. "Arden?" She was the only logical answer. The only one who had a key and would show up unannounced where everyone else would just knock. "Your timing is almost scary good." She called, expecting to see her come down the corridor any second. "I just opened a bottle of red, you want some?"

[ardenmoore]

There was no fire behind her ribs, no sharp retort clawing its way up her throat. Just silence, thick and heavy, as she listened. León—who never moved without intention, who clung to his choices like scripture, who’d rather choke on his pride than admit fault—laid himself bare, right there in front of her. He wouldn’t say what pushed him to make that call, wouldn’t walk her through the wreckage that led them here, but what he was giving her now? It felt real. Stripped down. Honest in a way that caught her off guard. And maybe it wasn’t enough. But it was more than she ever thought he’d give. More than she knew how to ask for.

The part about secrets struck her, and it showed plain as day on her face, finding it rather difficult to keep her expression even, unchanged. Almost as if his vulnerability had disarmed her. "That's what this is." She repeated, arms crossing over her chest then. Secrets, skeletons buried deep in the closet, ones that clawed at the edges of ones mind and left marks; that she understood. And for a moment it all made sense, the self preservation of it all. The instinct to keep your head above water, even if it meant letting the whole damn ship sink beneath you. Survival.

Perhaps she knew more about him than she realized.

But she didn’t argue. Didn’t press or poke holes in what he’d said, even if part of her knew she probably should’ve. Maybe she should’ve questioned his assurance that her people weren’t in danger—at least not from the Outlaws—but for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she believed him. Against her better judgment.

For now, anyway.

Arden let out a dry scoff, rolling her eyes. “If your arteries don’t give out first, then yeah. Probably.” Her gaze stayed locked on him as he finally gave in, jerking his chin toward her car. A self-satisfied smirk curled at the corner of her mouth. “Hate to break it to you, bloodhound, but I usually save those types of insults for the assholes that actually get themselves killed.” She moved to walk beside him, steps measured, and after a brief beat, extended a hand, daring to rest it against his bicep—silent offer for assistance, no fuss. If he wanted help, he’d take it.

“And if you do bleed out on my seats,” she added, deadpan. “I’ll just rob your corpse and leave you for the vultures.”

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low and dry, “well. Maybe that’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night.” There wasn’t heat in it anymore. No teeth. Just that worn-down kind of honesty that came after too many bruises and not enough answers. He looked at her then—really looked at her. The kind of look that stripped things down to the bone. Not a threat. Not even a warning. Just… recognition. Of the line she’d drawn. Of the line he’d crossed. Of the fucked-up, tangled mess sitting between them now, and how neither of them knew what to do with it.

His hand pressed against the side where the blood was soaking through the bandage—half-conscious now of how dark it had gotten. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what a wound like that meant if left alone. But she was watching him like it mattered, and somehow that felt worse than bleeding. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, edged with something quieter than anger but just as sharp. “Maybe that’s the problem. You don’t know me—and I sure as shit don’t know what you think you know.” His gaze finally snapped back to her then, steady, unreadable. “But here’s what I can tell you: this thing with Aslan? Wasn’t about him. Wasn’t about you, either.”

A pause. Not quite long enough to be hesitation. Just long enough to mean something. “There’s no greenlight on your people,” he said, firm. “This wasn’t some MC pissing contest. It wasn’t sanctioned. It wasn’t even strategy.” A beat. “It was a fucking trap. And I walked into it. I took the bait.” He hated how the truth tasted. Hated how close it came to something raw, something he couldn’t bury beneath swagger and violence. But there was no walking this back. No burying what she already saw.

“I didn't enjoy putting the beat down on your guy, but after he did this, I had to.” His eyes flicked up, dark and tired and furious at everything but her. “But I’d rather take ten more of these—” he nodded down to the wound—“than look like someone’s puppet.” He paused, debating what to lay out on the table. “You ever have a secret so bad it could burn everything down? Not just you. Everyone you’ve built something with?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “That’s what this is.”

And that was as much as she’d get. No names. No motives. Just a glimpse behind the curtain, enough to prove he wasn’t acting on impulse. That someone else was pulling strings with wire and threat and whispered ruin. “I didn’t want a war. I still don’t. But I couldn’t walk away from this one without someone noticing. That’s the position I was in.”

His fingers twitched toward his ribs again, a grimace followed, quiet, swallowed down. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing him wince. When she mentioned the gauze, his expression flickered—almost imperceptibly—at the shift in her tone. The edge in her voice blunted just slightly, the concern beneath it poking through like light under a locked door. “I’ve had worse,” he muttered, but it lacked conviction. The usual bravado wasn’t all there, worn thin by the hour, the blood loss, and the fact that this conversation had cost him more than he’d meant to give. “You think a little infection’s what’s gonna take me out?” His eyes lingered on her a second longer, then—grudgingly—he jerked his chin in the direction of her car. “Fine. Show me the gauze. But you say one word about weakness, and I swear I’m bleeding out on your seats just to spite you.”

[ardenmoore]

Arden didn’t laugh much these days—but right then, she couldn’t help herself. It slipped out, sharp and sudden, like a bark, like something torn loose. Maybe she should’ve been afraid. Maybe she should’ve been more cautious, considering the power dynamic between them had shifted so far out of her favor. But all she saw when she looked at Nico was a whiny, entitled little boy—one who’d been handed everything and still walked around acting like the world owed him more. Money, status, legacy—none of it earned. Just inherited arrogance dressed up like authority. 

"Your sense of humor’s really come a long way since we stopped fucking." she said dryly, blowing a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. The cigarette hung loose between her fingers as she crossed her arms, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Even as he stepped closer, she refused to flinch, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. But she clocked the shift in his tone instantly—a new kind of boldness, sharpened by the weight of his freshly inherited title. Arden didn’t scare easy these days, but for just a split second she wondered—how far would Nico’s petty, insecure little vendettas actually take him? 

She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, flicking her hand forward with lazy precision as she tapped the ash off her cigarette—letting it drift down and land squarely on his shoes. “Why don’t you tell your sister,” she said, eyes locked on his, “that the next time she wants to start something with me, she better be ready to finish it.” Head cocked to the side, adding, "guessing she learned her shit aim from you."

The mention of his sister almost made his jaw clench - not that he was willing to let himself rise to it. He knew she was trying to bait him, provoke him, and maybe if she was anyone else she would have done. Still, she remained a fucking ugly bitch to Nico and his mind wouldn't ever change. It wasn't even her looks that added to that, it was her entire personality - one he didn't get along with, one he thought was about as entertaining as paint drying. The icing on the cake for Nico was Arden going behind his back - the cherry was her attacking his sister. Either way, he'd laugh the day she died, and if he was fucking psycho, he'd dance on her fucking grave.

The instant assumption she had to him setting that light to the trailer park, was spot on, sure, yet one that was more tangled than they all thought. Regardless of the fact, Nico didn't give away anything. He remained bored by her presence - bored by her constant talking, anyone would think she still had a crush, hell, Nico would eventually because surely she'd have shut the fuck up - or maybe he was expecting too much of her.

"If you're inside I'd do it right fucking now." he's neither confirming or denying, because he doesn't care. Though what he does care about is Arden's life going up in smoke. She was useless to him - pointless.

He walked towards her, standing beside Arden as his attention finally focused down at her, "Touch my sister again and I'll fucking kill you myself."

[ardenmoore]

"I don't know, León—because I don't know you." The words slipped out rough, frayed at the edges. She looked at him then, and the truth of it hit her all at once. No, she didn’t know him. Not really. Not the way most people came to know someone after standing shoulder to shoulder in chaos, after coming through when it counted, after ending up tangled in sheets and silence. But Arden never left the door open for that. Not even a crack. It was always easier to keep people at arm’s length, to treat connection like a liability instead of a lifeline, and the man before her was no exception—even if he should have been, even if some part of her, deep down, she wanted him to be.

But now, standing there as the adrenaline bled out and the night’s heat cooled into something heavy in her chest, it wasn’t anger she felt anymore—it was something closer to defeat. God, would she ever get out of her own fucking way? "I wish that was good enough—but it’s my guy you tried to make a fucking example of," she said, jaw tight enough to crack. "If you can’t explain it to me, then at least tell me this: was that shit you pulled on Aslan the end of it? Or are we supposed to keep our heads on a swivel every time some asshole in a cut shows up looking sideways?" If I need to start watching my back around you, she wanted to say—but even that felt like giving too much away. Too close to something honest.

Another sigh fell from her lips, fingers exasperatedly raking through jet-black locks as she shook her head. "'Course you didn't enjoy it" Her eyes dropped to the wound at his side, the red spreading like spilled ink. "'Fucking morons. You didn't think he'd have a weapon on him?" It was only after a beat that she looked back up and met his gaze.

León was hard to read, which was saying something, considering Arden could usually size a person up in seconds flat. But she caught it anyway: the way the color had drained from his face, the tightness behind his eyes. Not fear; resignation. Like a man who refused to let his own cracks show, even when they were spitting apart completely—even as he practically bled out in front of her.

Perhaps she didn't know León the way she should; but fuck, did she understand him.

Her brow softened, just enough to be noticeable, just enough to betray the flicker of concern that'd been hidden beneath the rage she'd displayed only moments earlier. "I have gauze in my car," she uttered quietly. "You should probably treat that before you get fucking septic or something."

León didn’t flinch when she shoved him. Didn’t stumble, didn’t even glance down at the blooming red on his shirt like a tell. He just stood there, jaw tight and shoulders squared, looking at her the way a man does when he’s trying not to make something worse.

But damn if she didn’t make it hard.

“You done?” he asked first—dry, low. Not cruel, just tired.

He leaned in just slightly, like he could smell the accusation on her breath. “You think me and Tommy just fly off the handle ‘cause someone flaps their mouth? You think we don’t weigh that shit before we do what we do?” Another pause, his stare flicking over her like he was scanning for something—maybe loyalty, maybe just an opening.

“There’s moves being made, real ones. And if I say I can’t explain it, it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because I won’t.” The edge in his voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through steel. “Not to you. Not to anyone.” He stepped back just enough to pull a breath that didn’t hurt. Much.

“And don’t flatter yourself. This?” He gestured vaguely between them, his lip twitching, almost a smile—almost. “Ain’t got shit to do with who I fuck. You could’ve been a nun or a ghost or nothing at all and I’d still have done what I did.”

Another beat. “But I didn’t lie to you, Arden. So if you’re looking for betrayal, pick someone else.” His tone went quiet again. Still steel, but cooler now. Resigned. “You came here mad, fine. But don’t come here acting like I enjoyed it.”

[ardenmoore]

She couldn’t even access that part of her brain anymore—the one that used to register even a flicker of something warm for Nico Barone. Whatever she'd felt, whatever fleeting interest or misplaced affection had existed between them, had burned off a long time ago, scorched clean and left sharp around the edges. Somewhere along the way in their short-lived mess of a fling, he’d stopped being a man and started being a stepping stone—her sloppy, inconvenient transition from civilian life to the world she now belonged to. And now? Just looking at him made her skin crawl. Her stomach turned with something closer to contempt than regret, and there wasn’t even the comfort of lust in those hate-fueled nights towards the end to soften her edges.

Nico Barone was a fucking joke, an egotistical child with bad facial hair. And now he was the Don.

What a weird fucking world.

"Here to kill your sister, obviously." Arden remarked with a wry grin, unable to help herself from finding amusement in her own words even despite the dangerous territory she was dancing in. Tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette, she didn't bother giving a real answer. "I'm surprised you don't have your own 'special entrance' that leads right to her room. Guess being the Don doesn't get you everything." A shrug, adding then, "hey -- if Camila croaks in there, is the hospital the next place you'll burn down?" A shot in the dark, sure, but not exactly a leap. Especially with Officer Schwarz being the one laid out in a body bag. "I mean — one nurse is down already. Why not torch the whole lot of them?"

The level of annoyance that was already circling his body only ten folded the moment he set his sights on Arden. If he were anyone else he may have turned in the other direction, found another entrance that gained him access to where his sister was staying, but he wasn't. Despite his strong need to have absolutely nothing to do with her, there she was in his path like an irrelevant piece of shit.

His personal feelings, however, remained away from his expressions as they stayed entirely composed. Nico doesn't even need to take a look at her past her gaze - he's seen it all before, still as unimpressive and boring, and maybe - just maybe he was thinking about how he should have had her dragged to the trailer park and pushed into the flames that had engulfed. It would have been justified, after all, attacking his sister wasn't something he'd ever let slide.

The cop of it all was proof of that.

"What're you doing here?" he cut through, over talking her towards the tail end of her jab. Not even listening to what she had to say because it didn't matter who she was, Nico thought her life was worthless.

[ardenmoore]

Ah, so he was one of those assholes—the kind that smiled when you glared, laughed when you clenched your jaw, and got a little too comfortable trying to read between lines that weren’t meant for him. Arden didn’t like most people, but at least she respected the ones who barked back. This guy? He just felt greasy. “You say potato, I say asshole-mobile,” she muttered, tone flat as her shoulder gave a nonchalant shrug. But then he alluded to her so-called position, like they were just two old colleagues chatting about the weather instead of her gang affiliation. It made her spine straighten, jaw tick. “Okay? Do I look like I’ve got time for riddles?” she snapped. She knew what he was circling around—the Kurtlar—but she didn’t know him. Didn’t know his name, his loyalties, or why he thought he could talk to her openly, so brazenly. “What is it exactly that you want from me?”

Ah, she was a prickly one. Which of course only made the smile on Kerem's lips grow for he was not deterred by anything as small as a sour mood. She was correct - she didn't work here. Not as a sales person, of course. But she held a position behind the proper jobs on the front end, though he wasn't quite sure which one as she was a new face to him. Had she been an addition since coming over to the United States? Perhaps he should get some new help here too so he can feel included in the fun. "Asshole-mobile? Now, I thought it was a nice looking car to add to my collection." He grinned, tipping his head back towards the car. It would simply be another toy to add to his already large collection. Just a whim. "No, you don't work here. But I do believe you hold quite a different position that has more of my attention." He sized her up and tried to figure out what her role was within the Kurtlar ranks. "I'm close friends with you... ah second in command." He grinned.

[ardenmoore]

Arden didn’t mind silence. She didn’t always know how to hold it—wasn’t great at sitting still, letting things breathe when she could burn through them with sharp words and decisive action—but it never unsettled her. That was thanks, in large part, to Aslan. He’d trained it into her, carved patience and presence into the sharp edges she used to keep people out. There was a time she didn’t move through rooms like she owned them, didn’t know her own power or believe she had the right to take up space. After Ozan disappeared, Aslan had made it his mission to change that. Friend. Brother. Mentor. The lines between those roles had always blurred, and now they felt a thousand miles away—distorted by the space and silence hanging thick between them. And it pissed her off. Not because she was angry with him. No, not really. The truth was, she was scared, but Arden didn’t do fear these days—she buried it deep, let it rot, and fought her way out. Offense was easier.

Apparently there was still a lot she had left to learn from him.

But now, she was hurt, fearful of losing one of the few people on this earth that she trusted — and here she was, making an ass of herself because she couldn't just swallow her pride and open up. "I'm not missing anything." She remarked defiantly, eyes never falling from his. "You were jumped by two guys — " Well, more like one, seeing as the other had been pretty useless against Aslan from the start, "— stabbed one of them, and then you don't pick up the fucking phone. Not once." She tried to keep her voice neutral, even, even despite how she felt like she was going to crawl out of her skin. "So -- now that I've finally gotten the chance to see you, see you're in one fucking piece, then maybe you can tell me what your problem is." Get it over with, she wanted to say. Accuse me of sleeping with the enemy. Call me a fucking idiot. Because that would be better than the silence she was getting instead.

There was a brief flicker of disbelief that etched itself into his features with her response, though it's hardly shown and soon after buried beneath a natural, neutral expression. As per her own words, he was the one who had taken a hit to the head, and yet, she stood before him speaking out of her ass as though she were the one amidst a brawl that knocked her brain cells right out. As if there weren't something bigger looming over all of them in the form of some unknown figure pulling strings and setting fires between every organization in the city.

With a weighted sigh, he leaned back in his seat, gaze never breaking from her own. For several moments, he allowed silence to pass between them, where no thought seemed to cross his mind because he truly could not comprehend what the hell she was doing. Finally, he stood, slowly, in a way he'd move before an animal prepared to attack, yet he hadn't stepped beyond the desk. "You in some world on your own missing everything that happened before your eyes? I don't know what the fuck this is, but if you have some kind of problem — say it." And stop wasting my time wasn't said aloud, but it was conveyed in the clipped edge beneath his tone.

[ardenmoore]

She'd lost track of Aslan long before they'd docked, the moments between her pulling León away to help break up the fight and the relative panic that ensued moments later causing her normally keen eye to lay dormant. Unease sat heavy in her stomach as she attempted to process what she'd witnessed; her best friend and her -- well, she didn't quite know what León was at this point, but she'd relented finally to the fact that he was something. Both of them trying to kill each other, and for what? What could have possibly compelled León to go absolutely fucking insane? She maintained a high position in the Kurtlar; she would know if tensions were brewing between them and the Outlaws, if something had happened to shift the otherwise courteous relationship between the two gangs. Some random nobody spewing misinformation couldn't be enough to sway him that easily -- or had she misjudged him this whole time?

Once the initial shock had worn off, once she'd been adequately questioned and had disembarked, had realized that searching for Aslan at this hour to check on him -- to explain herself, what had caused her to jump to the Outlaws' president so easily -- was moot, she turned herself around and headed back towards the boat. Perhaps if she couldn't give answers that night, she could get them

"You fucking asshole!" She yelled, wasting no time and stepping right up and shoving him in the chest, the stab wound she knew bled at his side of little concern to her. "What the hell was that, huh? You hear one random bitch foam at the mouth with bullshit accusations and -- what, you and that little mustached freak take that as a queue to start a fucking war? Are you kidding me?" Arden had a temper, sure -- but it was more than anger. This felt worse; this felt like betrayal, like the little trust she had to give that she'd afforded him had been wasted.

Arden stared at the male for a long moment, his words causing a scoff to fall from her lips. "Oh, fuck you." A pause, and she shook her head, arms outstretched. "So, what -- this is it? Fucking me wasn't enough, so you need to fuck me over, too?"

who: @ardenmoore where: the marina, directly after the yacht party

The dock swayed underfoot, or maybe that was just him. León gritted his teeth against the sting that pulsed sharp and hot through his gut with every step. The night air bit cool against the sweat on his skin, but he welcomed it—it sobered, steadied, masked the blood that was slowly seeping through the dark fabric of his shirt. His leather cut hung open, casual, as if he weren’t holding himself together with pure spite and muscle memory. He kept a hand low and loose by his side, palm pressed lightly to the wound, like he was just resting it there. Like nothing was wrong.

Because no one could see him bleed. Not here. Not after that. He’d already answered his share of questions—stone-faced, voice flat, eyes giving nothing. Someone had pulled Tommy out ahead of him. There’d be more questions tomorrow, or tonight if the vultures didn’t sleep. He didn’t care. He just needed off this fucking boat, and into the hands of someone who wouldn’t ask what he did to deserve a blade between the ribs.

Halfway down the dock, he exhaled—relief laced with pain—and let his shoulders drop for the first time all night. And then he heard footsteps. Not behind him. Ahead. His head lifted, eyes narrowing under the low light. You’ve gotta be kidding me. He knew that silhouette. Even before she got close enough to make out the jaw set like a steel trap, the shoulders that could carry the weight of kingdoms and still swing. Arden. Loyal. Kurtlar. And close enough to Soykan that León could already taste the confrontation coming.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, more to the universe than her. But of course, she didn’t listen. None of them ever did. He stopped walking, just barely. Straightened, sucked in a breath so shallow it barely filled his lungs, and forced his face into that familiar calm—the kind right before a knife gets drawn.

“You here to finish what your boy started?” he asked, voice low and rough, the shadow of a smirk ghosting his mouth. “Or just came to check if he got a few licks in first?” He didn’t want to fight her. Not here, not now. But if she swung, he'd swing back. No matter how much blood he was already losing.

[ardenmoore]

where: the hospital, parking garage who: @nicobarone & arden moore

Things were a fucking mess, and as the Fixer it was up to Arden to — well — fix them. With Camila Barone shot and contained in a hospital room under armed guard, every uniform in the city had been pulled to the hospital like it was ground zero. Which, considering the blonde heiress could barely throw a bottle three feet in front of her and actually hit her target, seemed a bit like overkill. Arden wasn’t there for the show, though. She had her sights set on the handful of LAPD officers she knew had ties to the Kurtlar, some that she knew were on duty, hoping to glean some more information.

Unfortunately for her, she’d have to wait until their shifts were over before she could pull any of them aside — which meant killing time in the hospital’s parking garage, a cigarette dangling idly between her fingers. She leaned against the wall just beside one of the side entrances, the space quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the row of parked cars collecting dust like no one had moved them in days. That’s when she saw him. A silhouette she could clock from a mile away. Her blood ran cold, but it wasn't from fear — it was disdain, sharp and instant, settling low in her gut like a familiar sickness.

“Look who finally grew into daddy’s shoes,” she said, tone flat, eyebrow arched as she observed the new Don. She took another drag of her cigarette, eyes flickering over Nico with a scoff. "Hope you learned how to tie your laces beforehand."

[ardenmoore]

Arden wasn’t exactly built for small talk. The permanent scowl, clipped tone, and a posture that said try me before she even opened her mouth were usually enough to keep the curious and the stupid at bay. That was the whole point—cultivate the right reputation and people learned to keep their distance. It kept things clean, efficient, safe. So when some guy she’d never seen before in her goddamn life had the nerve to stroll up like she was just another friendly face in the crowd—like she didn’t have a knife laced into her boot and the mood of someone two seconds from snapping—her expression tightened. “The fuck is it to you?" She looked the man up in down, recognition not coming to her. And yet, she was the new face? "If you're looking for someone to cut you a deal on this asshole-mobile, I'm afraid you're gonna have to look a little harder-- I don't work here."

WHO: Arden Moore @ardenmoore LOCATION: Grand Tour Drive

While Kerem may be here for a new car to add to his garages, he also here was to do some business. Kurtlar would be in quite a sticky situation with the recent events. Now that certainly had been an interesting party, and he hoped the city had more to offer like that. Talk about going out with a bang. And according to his intel, the cop who shot the Barone girl was working for Kurtlar. Tensions were rising and that was good for business for Kerem. So while he inspected the Bugatti on the floor, he kept an eye out for anyone who was more than simply an employee. His gaze caught the movement of a woman entering a back door, one that promised to hold some of the more... unofficial business dealings of the business and with a smirk he strided over. "Busy week?" He asked, his voice smooth. "I may be able to help with that. But you... I'm afraid you are a new face. Such a shame we've never crossed paths before."

[ardenmoore]

A scoff slipped out before she could catch it, arms folding across her chest like armor, as if that might shield her from the weight of his stare—the kind of look that warned anyone with half a brain to back the hell off. But Arden wasn’t just anyone. She knew that look. She’d seen it too many times—after long nights, after missions gone sideways, when Aslan and Oz came back quieter than usual. When she was still scrubbing blood from her husband’s collar and pretending the silence didn’t mean something.

Eventually, she learned better. Learned what that silence carried. Learned to weaponize her grief instead of drowning in it. And it was Aslan who showed her how. He’d taught her how to stand, how to strike, how to survive. And still, in a split second, she’d strayed. Perhaps only for a moment, only during a lapse of judgement, fear getting the better of her and optics pushed to the back of her mind, but she'd strayed.

But Aslan didn't. He never did. They both knew that.

"How is this not about me?" she tossed back, voice sharp. "Why else would you be avoiding me? 'Cause you got hit in the head a little too fucking hard, and you thought you saw something. Is that it?"

It had been days since he last slept. Since the lights cut out on that yacht and the first accusation split the evening like a warning shot. Since the blood was drawn—by his own hand and by the hands of one he'd almost considered a friend. It wasn't the violence that kept him up, he'd made peace with what he was a long time ago. What kept him awake now—what burned slow through his chest—was the betrayal.

The setup. The names. The precision of it all. Whoever had orchestrated it hadn't acted on impulse. They'd studied. They'd used key players like puppets. So Aslan did what he always did, he planned. Methodically. Ruthlessly. Calculated every last option until there was only two left before him.

He heard the door before he saw her. His only movement was to reach for the gun resting at the edge of his desk, cocking it with practiced ease. Though it hadn't further lifted once her voice rang through, it simply remained heavy in his hand, weighing whether to fully set it down.

When she stepped inside, his gaze found hers immediately—that familiar, heavy look that never gave much away unless you knew where to look. The last time he had seen her, on that yacht, on the wrong side of the violence. And now, Aslan was left sorting through the wreckage—reevaluating the people he'd once trusted with his life. Had he been wrong all along?

The gun met the desk with a dull thud, his gaze never wavering from hers. Yet, he hadn't spoken. He simply stared back, allowing silence to hang between them for several beats. Finally, "you think this is about you?"

[ardenmoore]

[ardenmoore]

where: aslan's place who: @aslansoykan & arden moore

He’d been ignoring her for days now—and not the kind of radio silence that came from needing time to heal or process, either. Arden knew the difference, especially when it came to her best friend. Aslan Soykan didn’t stop, not even when the world gave him every reason to. That was something she’d come to admire about him over the years—his relentlessness, his refusal to stay down no matter how bad the blow. So no, this wasn’t recovery; this was deliberate.

She’d kept her distance at first, telling herself he’d come around, that he just needed time to put the pieces back together. But when he didn’t answer the first time—or the second, or the third—she knew it wasn’t space he was asking for. It was something else. He was shutting her out. Her chest ached with the weight of it, guilt pressing in before she could stop it—but she shoved it down, locked it tight beneath something that felt a hell of a lot easier to hold onto: anger. Anger gave her direction. Guilt just left her drowning.

Given the state everyone in the Kurtlar was in lately—jumpy, suspicious, armed to the teeth—there was a very real chance Aslan, worst of all, was sitting on the other side of the door with a gun aimed straight at it. So, even though she let herself in, Arden didn’t take any chances. “It’s me!” she called out, voice sharp as the key twisted in the lock. She stepped inside, her gaze locking onto him the second he came into view. Her brows drew together, arms folding tight across her chest as the heat started to build in her throat.

“You’re avoiding me.”

[ardenmoore]

The mention of the Kurtlar — the hot Turks — sent Arden’s pulse into overdrive, pounding so hard she was sure Zeina could feel it through the grip of her hand. She tightened her fingers around it instinctively, but it did little to steady her nerves. “What the fuck?” she muttered, voice low but sharp, the panic in her chest overriding her own advice from just moments earlier about staying put. She moved alongside Zeina without hesitation, drawn toward the noise. “This was a setup. I knew it—” The words tumbled out fast, more to herself than anyone else, carried on a breathless edge that came from knowing, deep down, through her never-ending paranoia, she’d been right all along. 

The Gala hadn’t been a fluke. There was no way this many well-dressed, powerful people could gather in the middle of nowhere without attracting something ugly. Maybe it was the Network, maybe it was someone else lurking in the shadows.  Either way, the rug had been yanked out from under them, and Arden — despite everything, despite every hard-earned instinct — had made the mistake of relaxing into it. Of letting her guard down long enough to start enjoying herself. She should’ve known better. This was exactly why she needed to stop ignoring her gut.

And then the crowd broke, and in the middle were three figures – a younger male she recognized as an Outlaw, León, and Aslan.

And a lot of blood. 

Had León really just taken this person's word for it? That this was the Kurtlar’s doing? That they were behind whatever violence was about to erupt on this goddamn boat? And worse—he believed her, just like that, despite everything? “Hey! Stop!” Arden’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate, her grip on Zeina’s hand tightening instead of letting go. She couldn’t move at first, couldn’t tear her gaze away as it bounced between her best friend and León—whatever he was to her now. Someone she trusted, maybe even cared about in ways she hadn’t fully admitted yet. Her chest ached with the weight of it, a cold sort of dread creeping in just as the younger member hit the ground.

“Zeina, I need to—” she started, half a breath away from stepping in, from trying to wedge herself between the chaos and pull Aslan back. But the second she released Zeina’s hand, she saw it—the flash of silver, the blade pressing into León’s side.

“As—stop!” she shouted again, already in motion. She didn’t move toward her friend, didn’t go to Aslan. Instead, her body propelled forward, straight for León, arms locking tight around his waist as she yanked him backward and away from the fight. Just enough space. Just enough time. But it was too late to stop the spiral. The damage had been done, and as screams rose around them, chaos unraveling at a dizzying pace, one thing was clear: this was only the beginning.

So much of her life had been spent rounding her edges for others, always trying to be smooth and comfortable. Something they could use to build on rather than something that might cut them. Years spent dulling her worry, softening her longing, curbing her tongue, smoothing her expression, gentling her words and restraining her emotions. Every response she gave was weighed careful and now was no different. The part of her that craved closeness and feared rejection or loss might have panicked at the sharpness in her sister in law's tone, such a contrast to how she moved through life, but she'd long since let logic take over and anxiety was quickly quelled by familiarity.

The squeeze she gave Arden's hand was firmer than it might have been for someone else, their lives tied together for long enough she was no longer afraid if she was too much anything she'd lose her. She didn't know if the comfort was meant for herself or her sister in law but after a beat she dropped the hand, knowing that Arden would undoubtedly feel like she needed it for something else. "I won't." An easy promise to make if it put the other's mind at rest.

Frown settled onto her brow as she looked around in the half light, trying to find any faces she recognised. Head shook at the mention of Aslan. "No, I-" Before she could finish she heard someone loudly accuse Kurtlar of being responsible and her heart dropped. Suddenly the stakes had gotten higher. "Shit." Softly exhaled rather than spoken, she found herself breaking the promise she'd just moved to move through the crowds. "We should try to find the rest."