The end of Zena's shift found her at the magazine stand down the street from GeneCo tower, loading up her arms with any glossy mag that had even the slightest reference to Pavi Largo on the cover — of which there were many. The burly, greying man who ran the stand shot her an amused look as he rang them up before listing the total.

"Got a crush, have we?" He teased warmly, bagging them up.

"It's…research," she pulled a face - not even believing herself as she said it, despite how she knew it to be true.

Then a final magazine caught her attention - one dedicated to European architecture, and the slightest threads of an idea twisted together in her mind "That one too, please.'

The man shared her doubts so far as her 'research' was concerned, judging by the amused half-smile he gave, handing the bag to her.

"He's always coming through these parts, you know - stick around, you might run into him."

"Preferably not while I'm holding all of these," she replied drily.

"It'd get you on his good side," the man shrugged with a chuckle, accepting her cash with a smile in parting.

Well, it was better than being on his bad side, wasn't it? The entire bus ride home, she felt utterly ridiculous - like everybody aboard knew exactly what was in all of those goddamn magazines she toted, and that she now only needed a lock of his hair to add the final touches to her budding Pavi Largo shrine back home. Okay, she was definitely being ridiculous. It was her bad mood talking - her nerves. Christ, most of these people probably unironically worshipped the ground the Largos walked upon and bought such magazines for their own entertainment. There was a reason anything Amber Sweet was photographed in immediately sold out world-wide and spurred on a lucrative market for cheap duplicates.

By the time she walked through the door of the apartment, she'd almost succeeded in unclenching her jaw and easing the tension off of her shoulders.

"I'm home," she called out as she nudged the door shut with her hip.

Stepping out of her heels, she sighed in relief as the cold kitchen tiles soothed her feet. Their apartment was modest, to put it mildly, but that only aided her in saving up to get the hell out of here. The front door opened up into the kitchen, which was just about big enough for one person to use at a time - thankfully, her mother never used it much. At the end of the narrow kitchen, an archway led into the living room, but her mom had covered it up with a cheap red curtain at some point or another, insisting that always having the front door in sight "made her nervous". Personally, the fire hazard of the curtain in close proximity to the stove made Zena a whole lot more nervous, but she had to pick her battles as far as her mother was concerned.

"Zee? That you?"

She very much struggled to think exactly who else it might be.

"Yeah, ma," elbowing her way through the curtain, she tucked her magazine stash under her arm "You okay? Have you eaten?"

"Mmmf."

It seemed the most in the way of a response that she could offer, sprawled across the sofa, her short blonde hair a mess as she stared up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, despite the fact that the television set blared not six feet away from her. That suited Zena just fine for today, though. She was in no state to notice much beyond her own nose, never mind the hoard of magazines she toted.

Slipping past her, she was half way into her bedroom when her mom called after her.

"Did you get milk?"

"No, I forgot," because she'd went off to buy magazines instead.

A heavy sigh followed, sparking her annoyance.

"I thought you had your Z Anonymous meeting today - why didn't you get some on the way home?"

Her mom grunted, eyes fluttering shut "The meeting takes a lot out of me."

Zena strongly suspected that the meeting that took a lot out of her was the one with the dealer afterwards, but she kept that suspicion to herself as her mom continued in a tone tinged with melodrama.

"It's fine. I was just hoping to have some cereal tonight, that's all."

"Well, the store's still open, go now - or there's oatmeal there, you can make that with water. I'll get milk tomorrow on the way home."

She knew it wasn't the correct answer before the responding grumble even reached her ears, and she shut her bedroom door behind her with the heel of her foot. Exactly how high her mother was dictated just how much she'd be bashed over the head with not-so-subtle hints at how disappointed she was by the lack of milk in the house, and ordinarily that would have irked Zena something rotten, but tonight her troubles were a little more pressing.

Propping up an old wooden photo frame at an angle between the wall and her door so that her mother couldn't wander in, she let her long dark curls down, changed into an old ratty pair of pyjama pants, an oversized t-shirt, and only then did she turn to the bag of magazines on her desk with the utmost reluctance. Usually this was her favourite time of day - getting to her bedroom, slipping into clothes that didn't pinch or squeeze, putting on some music, and just having fun with her designs, allowing the stresses of the day to fade from her mind, along with those that the following one would undoubtedly promise. Leave it to the fucking Largos to poison it.

But their standards were high, thanks to their insurmountable wealth and how they had just about everybody who was anybody in this world falling over themselves to please them. It rather helped that the former led to the latter, she supposed. It was because of that, that she knew Pavi would likely expect her to have something to show him when they next saw one another. If that was a week from now, that would be entirely reasonable - about as reasonable as she thought he might get, anyway. The problem was, for all she knew it could instead be twenty-four hours from now, and that difference in time hardly guaranteed a difference in expectations. In truth, she'd have been more surprised if it did grant her any kind of leniency.

Standing behind her desk chair, she continued to glare at the innocuous white paper bag like it was the cause of all of her problems in life. Other than the whole money dilemma (which had been, still was, and would probably always be the main dilemma she faced in this life), there had been other reasons why she'd never really pursued design with any real gusto. Namely the fact that she did not like working under pressure, and she didn't like being given assignments that weren't her own idea. The fact that this was the last thing she'd ever willingly choose to do, and the only way it could be more pressure-filled would be if it was for Luigi did not help matters at all.

But…she reasoned with herself, hugging her arms to her chest with a sigh. The most difficult moment was always just before starting. The only way she could make this impossible was if she decided it was a doomed cause before she even tried. She had to stop being such a fucking baby about this, and look for ways of making it doable. She could do this - she would do this. And she'd do it well. What was left was to work out how.

He'd already helped her - whether intentionally or not - by showing such a clear interest in a particular design or two. That gave her something to build upon. Oh, she knew she couldn't just present him with something she'd already done - something he'd already seen - were that the case, he would've just said so. No, Pavi Largo would want something designed especially for Pavi Largo. She doubted he so much as bought socks that were mass-produced, they probably had his signature emblazoned across the ankles in cursive script. Rifling through her sketches until she found the frock coat he'd so carefully paused over, she propped it up against her desk lamp. After that, she produced a notebook and a pen for when inspiration struck. Only then, when there was nothing else left that she might possibly do, did she slip the glossy magazines one by one from the paper bag.

Most magazines that featured him had him emblazoned across the front cover, but there were also plenty of spreads inside, and the more she flicked through the pages, the more her courage began to slowly build. Loathe as she might to admit it, his sense of style wasn't entirely out of the realms of where her own interests lay - in fact, they rather overlapped. The man dressed like a rockstar - blacks, greys, reds, purples. Rocky, alternative, with just a dash of goth; the more sophisticated, tasteful kind that had clearly been developed over the years, not the off-the-rack 'it's not a phase, mom!' sort. He was a perfectionist and it showed. The more she pored over the photographs, the more she begrudgingly began to admire his taste.

The situation in which she now found herself would've been a compliment to her work, really, had that 'compliment' not landed her in such a precarious position.

Carefully and meticulously, she marked each photograph that she thought might give her something to work with, ignoring the text of the articles in which artfully dodged questions on why he was never seen with the same woman more than three times, or just when it was he intended to settle down. When she'd finally gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb she was up to her ears in bright purple post-it notes and she'd scrawled no less than six pages of notes that would be entirely incoherent to anybody who wasn't her.

There was a hell of a range here - from him on the red carpet at formal events, to paparazzi shots of him stumbling from parties at four in the morning. He hadn't exactly given her much of a brief in terms of what it was he wanted, and while she was pleased at the level of freedom that gave her in his vague order to 'design something for him', the cynical part of her mind wondered if it wasn't just another way he might be hoping to trip her up. The defiant part of her mind, however, was much more loud. It grew only louder still ever since she'd resolved to tackle this challenge head on. If he truly wanted her to design something for him, she'd do it and do it well. If this was just some sort of sick game, she'd still design something so goddamn badass that he'd be forced to abandon the game anyway because of how much he loved what she produced.

It was almost midnight by the time she forced herself to put the magazines aside and sit up straight, her back cracking in a few places out of protest. She was dying to go to bed - she'd be up at six tomorrow and out of the door by seven, but she daren't turn up without at least a very rough sketch. And so, with a sigh, she opened up the architecture magazine, and went straight for the section marked Italy. He was the only one of the three Largo siblings who had an accent, and she'd heard the rumours when it came to that, but they mattered not. All that mattered was what it showed - an affinity, at the very least, for his heritage. So maybe she'd find something here.

The section opened on a series of photographs taken from inside some grand cathedral or another, and Zena stilled immediately. Then she grinned, enthusiasm for this little project doubling - no, tripling. Perfect.