fclsehearted

[fclsehearted]

Rosa tilted her head just slightly, catching the glint in his eye as he scanned the crowd. The game beneath the surface had started, even if half the room hadn’t realized it yet. She could feel the air tightening, like a stage curtain tugged taut before the first cue. “Mm,” she mused, her voice velvet-smooth but low enough to keep between them. “I think people are waiting for someone to swing first. Too many quiet glances. Too many polite smiles with nothing behind ’em. This room’s dressed in silk and secrets, and somebody’s bound to slip.”

Then, she turned that slow, unreadable smile on him, tapping one manicured nail against the stem of her flute. “You asking me to snitch, Mr. Gallardo? What kind of golden girl do you take me for?” But the amusement in her voice softened just enough, making room for something else as her voice dropped. "It seems like everyone is in the dark. The Rileys are wondering if the Tanakas did it, the Tanakas are thinking the Walkers did it, the Walkers are accusing us of doing it. So maybe it truly was an accident and that poor boy is out there dead from a mishap. Or —...Or whoever did it isn't a low level thug and knows how to keep their mouth shut." She wished after her brag of her eavesdropping prowess had ended with a bigger bang, but the Halperin boy's disappearance seemed to be a true mystery.

"Now don't tease me, who do you think did it, Caleb?"

"that so?" his eyebrows arched up, a look of faint amusement on his face. "i'd better make sure you don't then. not sure the boss would be too happy about that."

his gaze left rosa for a moment, travelling across the room once again to the people standing around them. "keen eyes and keen instincts, mrs alvarez. i've noticed who's here and how they're behaving. question is, how long is it going to stay this calm? and whose shit is about to hit the fan?"

caleb had to concede that she had a point there. people would keep talking if they didn't think someone was a threat. but then if they knew who her husband was or even caught a hint of how smart rosa was...? could spell trouble. "this is where i ask if people have said anything i should know about?" caleb knew that this evening wasn't just a regular fundraiser, there were ulterior motives and he had his theories, but any intel about that he was all ears for.

[fclsehearted]

featuring: open

The shoes were borrowed. The cigarette case wasn’t hers either—not really. And the dress? Well, if Zara told you how she got her hands on the dress, you’d either laugh or accuse her of being clever. Both would be correct.

She perched on the edge of the hotel’s terrace now, the cool marble of the balustrade pressing gently against her back, one heel kicked loose and swinging lazily off her toe. The lights of Hollywood glowed below like a false promise. In her hand, a coupe glass of champagne sat half-empty and neglected, beads of condensation racing down its slender stem. It wasn’t that she didn’t like parties—she did. She liked them quite a bit. But rooms like this always ran hot with tension, like perfume and secrets had been baked into the wallpaper. Too many names she only knew from whispered stories, too many smiles that didn’t reach anyone’s eyes.

She took a drag from her cigarette, exhaled slow, and tilted her head at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Careful,” she called lightly, without turning. “Anyone lingering out here is either hiding from someone... or hoping to be found. And it may not be easy to tell which.”

[fclsehearted]

Zara turned her head with a smile already blooming, the kind that came easy to her but still felt real. “That makes two of us,” she said, tone conspiratorial, amused. “Though I’ll admit, I didn’t question it nearly as politely as you did.”

She shifted her glass from one hand to the other, letting the golden fabric of her gown catch the light as she leaned in just a touch—close enough to be friendly, not so close to be pushy. “I say if they were foolish enough to invite us, the least we can do is drink their champagne and act like we belong.” A wink, then a grin. “You wear uncertainty well, by the way. Very old Hollywood of you.”

She glanced out across the room, where pearls and power floated in velvet shadows. “What desk did that little envelope land on, if you don’t mind me asking?”

"can i be honest?" she said quietly, "i have no idea how i managed to get an invitation to this thing." rosalyn felt like she'd been walking past famous faces all evening, and she was torn between boldly approaching them to try snag a small interview and not wanting to get thrown out for being inappropriate. eager to stay, she'd chosen to keep her mouth shut and hover on the periphery of the room instead. "i thought they'd made a mistake when that little envelope landed on my desk." she laughed. "here i am though."

[fclsehearted]

The gown clings like poured satin, a molten gold that shifts with every step she takes. Beading catches the light at her shoulders, dripping down like champagne fizz, while a deep plunge at the neckline dares the room to look twice. Her earrings are pearls, yes—but hung from hammered gold, like something pulled from the bottom of a jewelry box in Damascus. Smoke-lined eyes sweep the room with friendly ease, never hurried, never lost. She lights her cigarette with a golden case etched with initials that aren’t hers, and smiles like a woman who already knows what you’re about to say, but is still eager to hear it regardless.

[fclsehearted]

[fclsehearted]

Gabrielle Bates, from "Eastern Washington Diptych", Judas Goat

[fclsehearted]

She watched him with that same deliberate stillness, like she was reading more from the way he spun that chain than anything he said aloud. Rosa didn’t press—she never did when it counted. But her gaze didn’t stray, didn’t flinch either, even as the tension in his jaw started to ebb like a tide pulling back from some unseen storm.

“Mm,” she hummed, sliding her fingers along the edge of her glass before abandoning it altogether. “You’re getting sentimental on me, cariño. Should I be worried?” But her voice was warm beneath the tease, the kind of warmth reserved just for him—quiet and low, like a secret only they got to keep.

She took the offered hand without hesitation, lacing her fingers with his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, with the faintest smirk as she leaned in—“If we’re playing the grieving friends of the family, I want a drink after. A good one. With real liquor. And I want to see your face when some poor bastard tries to corner us about the next studio picture like we’re not mourning a tragedy.”

Her tone was light, joking. But there was a look she gave him then—quick, almost imperceptible—equal parts warning and reassurance. She knew. Not what he was holding back, not yet. But that he was, and that it cost him something not to say it. And she appreciated it. And that she’d wait. Always. “Let’s go make them believe we’re heartbroken,” she added dryly, stepping into stride beside him. “At least ‘til the crab cakes run out.”

a breath slowly passes through his nose, like that might cool the heat still simmering under his collar. javier’s wound tight. he knows it, knows she feels it too in the way she lets the silence linger and the sidelong glances. he’s been carrying something since his talk with caleb earlier in the evening. the kind of thing that changes everything if it ever sees the light and he’s been chewing on whether to speak it aloud, to pull rosa into it, or to keep it locked down tight where it won’t reach her. safer that way, maybe. or maybe that’s just what he tells himself.

“you were right,” he says, finally, fingers toying with the chain stretched across his vest, absently thumbing it before pulling the watch free from the pocket at his waist. he flicks it open, checks the time—not that he needs to—and then slips it back, letting the chain fall neatly into place. "i hate these things. i'd rather be home. just us."

he can feel the red tide subsiding. he can’t lose control. not here, not like this. not in a room full of vultures who would feast on the smallest crack in their armor. and not when her name, her career, is already balancing on a knife’s edge. she doesn’t need a headline about her husband with blood on his knuckles and a beaten producer while the halperin's are milking the sympathy for their jackass of a son. she needs a steady presence at her side. so he’s trying, god, he’s trying. doing what he can behind the scenes, pulling strings where she can’t see. all for her, all so she can take the spotlight.

"c'mon," voice is low, coaxing, as he offers his hand. "we gotta make the rounds and schmooze some of these bastards—halperin's first. we should show how sorry we are their golden boy wandered off."

[fclsehearted]

STEPHANIE NUR as AALIYAH AMROHI SPECIAL OPS: LIONESS (2023)

[fclsehearted]

Rosa’s grin curved slow and deliberate, a spark lighting behind her eyes as she tilted her champagne flute in his direction. "Please, Caleb. If I ever did overtime, you’d know—your books would come out a lot lighter, and half this room would be sweating harder." She let the joke hang there just long enough to soften the edge, then took a sip, eyes still watching him over the rim of her glass.

"But I don’t need recon to know when the wind’s shifting. You can feel it in a room like this… when people start showing up to be seen rather than to blend. Too many sharp suits, not enough sharp eyes." A pause, her gaze flicking past him briefly. "And the ones who should be nervous? Funny how calm they look."

Rosa set her glass down with a quiet clink and adjusted her glove like she wasn’t saying anything important at all. "You’d be surprised what people say around a woman they think is only good for looking pretty and a song."

"and we'll never forget it." the truth was, rosa wasn't wrong and caleb knew it. he had to hand it to her, the woman knew how to work for what she wanted and he admired her determination. the gallardo spirit was in her blood long before she'd ever become an official member of the family. "mmhm, they can be clumsy. would make my life a whole lot easier if a lot of 'em were like that." either way the pendulum swung, caleb's guard was always there ready to shoot up when he needed it.

"a tailor so good he could stitch them back together after the suit? i'm sure L.A.'s got one of those somewhere." amusement was still etched on his features and he nodded. "course i do. what's an evening of glamour without the entertainment?" caleb arched a brow in question at her next admission. colour him intrigued. he had his own suspicions about this evening thanks to some very reliable intel, but he was curious to know what rosa had to share. "oh yeah? you been doing some recon overtime i don't know about?"

[fclsehearted]

Rosa took another slow sip, watching him over the rim of her glass like she was letting him finish a solo—interested, but not in a hurry. “Well,” she said, her voice smooth with the kind of polish that came from years of stages and sharper rooms, “if you’re such a hazard, I’ll be sure to stand a little closer next time. For safety’s sake.”

There was a gleam in her eye, but her posture stayed loose, at ease—like the room was hers and she’d simply let the others borrow it for the night. She turned slightly, resting one elbow against the piano, giving him more of her profile and less of her armor.

“Funny,” she murmured, voice dipping with just a touch of weight, “most folks who say they’ve never been good at pretending are usually the best at it. But I won’t press. Not tonight.” A pause, then a tilt of her head. “Though I’m flattered you’d save your truth for me.”

Her smile returned, easy but deliberate, and she raised her glass toward his. “Such lovely music? Watch yourself Yoon, you'll make my husband jealous with that type of talk.” It was a tease, although not entirely untrue. "Now, where have you been hiding yourself since I saw you last?"

He's never minded the quiet, the lull that sweeps through a space once it's near closing and most of the patrons have drunkenly trudged out. He likes finding a seat at Eden’s bar and listening to the stragglers spill what little remains in the deepest recesses of their minds, too tired or too drunk to peacock, too worn to conceal. In those moments, he’s loved people, for half a breath, for the length of a sigh. But the Roosevelt lounge is still in its early hours. Here, the air simmers with restraint. Sober enough men grandstand in low tones, others peer mutely into their glasses, their tongues stiff, their guards rigid. Archer doesn’t mind. Still, when Rosa speaks, he finds himself grateful. Where he is the slick spill of silver and blood, she reminds him of spiced honey and the bite of something deeper just beneath. "It was smart of them. I'm more of a hazard with one than without." A crooked smile, wrapping his cloth napkin tight around two fingers pointedly. He lifts his brow, bemused. She seems to be wont to tease. "I've never been shy," he says. Was it a lie? He can't remember. There was one point when Nam-il might have been shy, when he was in Busan too shy to ask his neighbor for more flour. "It was suffocating in there, I simply had to flee. Can't be in too good of spirits, a boy is still missing after all, but can't be too somber, else everyone will be too gloomy to donate. A buffet would at least have some life to it." Archer chuckles. "I've never been good at pretending." Now, this was certainly a lie. "And even if I was, what a shame that would be, when we make such lovely music together."

[fclsehearted]

featuring: mariya ito ( @noirfvl )

It wasn’t the first time Eoin had found himself standing half in shadow, half in spectacle. This city had a way of putting its broken men on display—sanding down the edges, dousing them in cologne, and daring them to smile like they hadn’t been carved into something meaner.

He didn’t bother with the smiling.

Instead, he lingered near the edge of the ballroom, one shoulder braced against the marble column, nursing a whiskey that had more ice than kick. A slow burn in his jaw said he’d need a real drink before the hour turned. His suit, dark and crisp, did its job of concealing more than it revealed—save for the brass glint of a watch half-swallowed by his sleeve, and the faint, half-healed ridge that curved just under his jawline, where the light hit wrong if you looked too long.

He wasn’t looking for company. But that didn’t mean he didn’t notice when it appeared, "Don’t reckon you’re lost, but you look like you wandered in from a better party."

[fclsehearted]

Eoin huffed a faint sound through his nose. Couldn’t rightly call it a laugh, not with how tight his jaw still was, but it was something. That threadbare flicker of amusement always seemed to find its way through when Roarke spoke like that—low, steady, laced with something sharp if you were listening close enough. “Think I’ll leave the blood on the boots,” he muttered, “less obvious that way. Bit more of a surprise when I come swingin’.”

His gaze drifted across the ballroom, all polished chrome and falsified charm, the burn of cigarette smoke layered under the swell of champagne and perfume. He didn’t trust any of it. The glitter was too thick. The smiles were all cut from the same thin, brittle cloth. Still, there was something grounding in having Roarke beside him—an anchor, if not quite a comfort. Not yet. Two years wasn’t long enough to patch over a lifetime of distance, even if the blood ran the same and the bones told the same stories in the cold.

And while Eoin wasn't often a man who did as he was told, he took Roarke's suggestion and swiped a glass of amber something from a passing waiter, before taking a strong pull from it. "So what do you think actually happened to the kid?" There were several rumors swirling about the Halperin kid, some even involving the Rileys themselves.

As comforting a presence as Eoin is, especially in this disorienting array of strangers and enemies and smoke and mirrors, Roark keeps a watchful eye on his son. He's all too familiar with the true nature of the powder keg they've walked into: a toxic concoction of ego and ambition and debauchery; tailored coats and expensive, draping fabrics far too effective in hiding the shape of a weapon. He almost wishes he could be fooled by the glitter and gold... maybe that would mean a moment of peace. Far too late for that now, he supposes.

Roark had made a valiant effort at the mingling game, but now that he's made it around the room once, his own flesh and blood makes for a welcome refuge. "Gotta keep a bit of blood on the collar, don't you?" he says low, and though his own gaze keeps tirelessly flickering around the room for those inevitable signs of trouble, there's just enough bone-dry humor in Roark's tone for Eoin to recognize. "Gotta let them know you're serious."

"For Christ's sake, have a drink. You look like you're about to put a hole through the wall."

[fclsehearted]

Eoin didn’t look up right away. Just shifted his weight, one shoulder ticking higher like maybe he was trying to roll Liam’s voice off it. Didn’t work. The smirk was already starting to pull at the corner of his mouth by the time he took a slow sip of whatever weak excuse for whiskey they were serving and glanced sidelong. “You know,” he said dryly, “I was almost starting to miss the docks. At least there, no one calls me Quasimodo in front of a bloody chandelier.”

His gaze swept the room, taking in the glitter, the polish, the press of expensive perfume that clung to the air like it was hiding something rotten beneath. “Place smells like desperation and hair tonic,” he added. “I’d rather the stink of salt and diesel any day.” Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t bristle the way he might’ve with someone else. That’s the thing about Liam—he had a way of digging the elbow in without ever making it feel like a wound.

Eoin turned toward him a little more fully, the right side of his face forward—old instinct, even now. The scars on his left still pulled when he smiled too wide, but he let one slip through anyway. A crooked thing, faint but there. “Almost didn’t recognize you without some poor bastard’s blood on your cuffs,” he said. “You clean up alright yourself, though. Though I’ll admit, I half-expected to see you sneak a hip flask in your sock.”

liam spotted him towards the edge of the crowd, shoulders stiff in that way that always made the kid look like he was bracing for a punch that never came. same posture, same stormy expression, like he’d dragged the salt air and rust of the docks all the way into the hotel ballroom with him. christ. the kid could scowl in a church and make it look personal.

with a drink in one hand and a crooked grin working its way across his face, liam made his way over.

“well i’ll be damned,” he drawled as he came up beside him, voice thick with amusement. “didn’t think they let you off the docks, quasimodo. i was starting to think roark had you chained up to those boats, ringin’ the ship bells and whisperin’ to cargo.”

he took a sip of his drink, glancing sidelong at him. “you clean up alright, though, lad. almost didn’t recognize you without a rust stain or fish guts on your boots.” / @fclsehearted

[fclsehearted]

She felt the change in him the moment his fingers brushed her back—too careful, too tight around the edges. That jaw flex, the clipped echo of her words, the way his eyes scanned the crowd like they might catch the tail end of a challenge. Their game had a rhythm, always had. Tonight, he was playing off-beat.

Rosa didn’t turn her head right away. She took a slow sip of champagne, deliberate, and let the silence stretch just long enough to sting. When she finally spoke, her voice was lighter than it had any right to be, all lilting amusement and lacquered sarcasm.

“Hm. I don’t remember,” she said, tilting her head just enough for him to catch the curve of her smirk. “Some poor soul with a jaw like wet clay and the conversational skills of a salad fork.” She glanced at him sidelong, letting herself lean into him softly, grounding. “Trust me, Javi… you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Then, a beat later, softer and almost drowned beneath the din of the party, “Not that you ever did.”

The humor returned to her voice like a slow curl of smoke, and she let her gaze wander over the crowd, breezy and unbothered, though her next words were meant only for him. “But if you’re that hungry to swing at someone, I’m sure I can find us a better target. Preferably one whose face wouldn’t get uglier after. — Rough night at the office, dear?” Her tone stayed light, teasing—but behind the flick of her lashes and the lift of her brow, she was watching him closely now, testing the edges, trying to feel out where the bruise was beneath all that ironclad quiet.

javier doesn’t laugh like he normally might. doesn’t toss back something clever, something to keep the game going between them. instead, his gaze holds a second too long, too hard, too still, and when he speaks, it lands heavier than it should.

“you didn’t correct them?” he repeats, quiet but clipped. there's a muscle that tightens in his jaw, sharp beneath the line of stubble. “guess i’ll have to make myself real hard to miss then.”

he lets the glass tap hers, but there’s less charm in the motion tonight. his hand brushes her back like it always does, a familiar weight, but there’s a tension in the way his fingers linger. it's not possessive, but claiming all the same. she’d feel it. the way he’s keeping himself measured, the way his gaze flicks past her a second too late, like he's already looking for whoever it was that got too bold.

“who was it?” he says after an elongated silence. the edge is unmistakable. he tries to make it sound offhand, tries to meet her eyes with something easier, something close to that smirk she knows. but, it doesn’t quite land. his voice is too flat, too careful. like there’s a weight in him he hasn’t shaken since he walked through the door. “the one asking if you came alone?”

he doesn't step away. just settles in beside her like he’s taking up post. the easy teasing between them cools, replaced by something more vigilant. there’s a press in his jaw, faint but firm, like he’s biting down on the thing he really wants to say. “just point 'im out.”

[fclsehearted]

see ZARA IBRAHIM over there? they have quite a reputation for being INDISCREET. some would beg to differ & say that they’re more WARM. rumor has it they are a WAITRESS AT CLUB EDEN for the TANAKAS. the TWENTY-EIGHT year old has been around los angeles for TWENTY TWO YEARS. just keep an eye on them — in this city, everyone’s hiding something & it’s only a matter of time before their true colors shine through. 

S T A T S

FULL NAME: Zara Ibrahim NICKNAME(S): Z OCCUPATION: Waitress at Club Eden

GENDER: Cis Woman PRONOUNS: She/Her NATIONALITY: Syrian-American ETHNICITY: Syrian and White

BIRTH PLACE: Damascus, Syria FATHER:  Mahmoud Ibrahim MOTHER: Marie Ibrahim neé Bernard SIBLING(S): Mariam Ibrahim CHILDREN: N/A PET(S): A cat named Ali

B I O G R A P H Y

Zara Ibrahim knows how to work a room. Quick with a smile, quicker with a refill, she’s got a laugh like sunlight through glass and a knack for remembering everyone’s favorite drink—and the name of their mistress, too. She’s a fixture at Club Eden now, all bright eyes and easy warmth, the kind of woman people talk to without realizing how much they’re saying.

But her story didn’t start in sequins and jazz.

She arrived in the United States in 1925, six years old and clutching her older sister’s hand as they stepped onto unfamiliar ground. Their parents had sent them from Syria to escape the violence sweeping the region during the Great Syrian Revolt. The Immigration Act of 1924 had already closed most doors, but through quiet channels and family insistence, they made it to Los Angeles—to relatives who had carved out a life on the margins in Little Tokyo.

There was no Arab community to speak of, not in the way others had enclaves and churches and languages spoken in the streets. Instead, Zara found her sense of home among other outsiders: Japanese immigrants, Filipino laborers, Chinese laundries, the occasional Mexican shop owner. Her life became a chorus of borrowed customs and unspoken bonds. By the time she was a teenager, she spoke enough Japanese to get by and enough English to handle the customers.

The war shattered everything.

She and her sister Mariam weren’t targeted, but their neighbors were. Friends disappeared overnight. Entire blocks emptied. Mariam’s fiancé and his family—gone, just like that. The sisters quit their office jobs to run Mariam’s fiancé’s family shop, keeping it open in the hope that someone—anyone—might come home. When they did, battered but alive, the sisters handed the business back without ceremony.

The Tanaka family had noticed. Loyalty like that—unflinching and unpaid—meant something. When Club Eden reopened under Tanaka protection, Zara was brought on as a waitress. It was a new type of place for Zara, a place where her charm and fire weren’t liabilities, but assets. She’s not quiet—not by a long shot. She chats, she teases, she remembers what people forget they’ve said. There’s power in being underestimated, and Zara’s mastered the art. She makes people feel at ease, even as she’s sizing up the room.

She isn’t looking to climb any ladder or play queenmaker. But in a town like this? Being trusted, being liked, and being in the right place at the right time—that might be more valuable than power anyway.

H E A D C A N N O N S:

She loves American film musicals—not for the stories, but for the costumes and choreography. She’s seen Cover Girl more times than she’ll admit, and she’s convinced she could’ve been a chorus girl if life had gone differently.

She keeps a box of postcards in her closet, unsent, addressed to her parents in Syria. She started writing them when she was 10, not knowing whether they’d ever be mailed, but she still adds to it from time to time.

Zara has a serious sweet tooth, especially for Western desserts—lemon meringue pie, banana splits, and anything with marshmallow. Mariam says it’s because they were too poor for sweets when they were kids. Zara says it’s because she’s finally old enough to spoil herself.

She believes in omens, not because of religion, but because she grew up around people who needed signs. A flickering light, a bird landing on a windowsill, a dropped glass—she notices them all and lets them quietly shape her day.

Zara has a habit of giving people nicknames, usually in Arabic or a mix of languages, and rarely explains what they mean. Most of them are affectionate—habibi, kuma-chan, ya kalbi—but occasionally someone gets one that sounds sweet and actually translates to something like “pain in my neck.” No one ever suspects.

W A N T E D C O N N E C T I O N S H E R E

[fclsehearted]

BRANDON SKLENAR as SPENCER DUTTON 1923 ‧ Created by Taylor Sheridan