Song: Zack Hemsey – The Way
As the last of the ambulance lights vanished into the distance and the scene started to clear, Alexandra heard the distant murmurs of police shifting their attention. A figure emerged from the depths of the alley's shadows—tall, imposing, draped in a cape that blended with the night. It was Batman.
Alexandra remained silent, her eyes tracking his every step as he approached. She couldn't help but marvel internally at the craftsmanship of his costume—its detailed armor plating designed to instill both awe and fear.
Batman stopped before her, his gaze assessing yet not unkind. "Impressive work tonight," he began, his voice deep and resonant even through the modulator. "Gotham needs more people who fight for others selflessly."
"People need hope, now more than ever," Alexandra responded firmly, her resolve clear in her tone. "And I intend to be that beacon if it means saving lives. Yes, I come from a good background, but seeing the youth in Gotham lose hope day by day... it breaks my heart. I'm here to drive change."
Batman nodded slightly, the edges of his cowl casting shadows over his eyes. "Fear has its place, though," he countered softly. "It often speaks louder than hope to those lurking in the dark."
"But it's hope, kindness, respect, and care that really make a difference," Alex insisted, her voice passionate. "If you offer these, people notice. Most crimes in the Narrows happen because of poverty, homelessness, hunger—city neglect. These drive people to desperation, and that's where the crimes stem from."
Batman's posture softened, an almost imperceptible shift. "You care deeply for the people, despite the short time you've been here."
Alexandra's expression turned reflective. "I know someone who deserves for me to do this," she said, unknowingly referring to the man before her—Bruce Wayne. "Lila, Jim, Mark, all the good people of Gotham... they need someone to be there for them. And I will be. That's the duty of a cop, isn't it? To be there when no one else is listening?"
"Indeed," Batman acknowledged, a note of respect threading through his tone. "Your dedication is commendable." With a final nod, he turned, his cape swirling around him as he prepared to disappear into the night once more.
Alex watched him go, her determination renewed. She would be the change Gotham needed, balancing the scales with hope and care where fear had once ruled.
Song: Black Swamp Village – The Speakeasies Swing Band
Oswald Cobblepot settled into the plush armchair of the Iceberg Lounge, his presence marked by the low clack of pool balls and murmured conversations drifting through the room. Carmine Falcone leaned intently over the pool table, eyeing his next shot, while a smattering of women, scantily clad and flirtatious, fluttered around the room, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of jazz in the background. One woman, particularly bold, draped herself along the back of Oswald's chair, her fingers idly playing across his shoulders in a feigned attempt at relaxation.
Yet Oswald's attention was fixed elsewhere—on the news playing above the bar. As he swirled his glass, the ice clinking rhythmically, the anchor's voice cut sharply through the ambiance. "Alex Victoire, Gotham's latest prodigy, makes headlines again," she announced with a mix of admiration and surprise. "In less than two weeks on the force, she's already taken down Rupert Jones, a man linked to a horrifying string of murders, sexual assaults, and burglaries."
Carmine straightened up, pausing his game to watch the screen. A smirk curled his lips as he glanced at his companions. "Own her, huh? Just like the rest of the GCPD. With a pretty face like hers, she won't last long in Gotham," he jeered. "Might as well enjoy the view while it lasts, boys. Maybe she'd serve better as a distraction than a detective."
The room erupted with chuckles at Carmine's crude jest, but Oswald felt a surge of irritation. The image of Alexandra, confident and resolute, flashed across the TV, igniting a protective spark within him. He clenched his fist around the glass, the cold surface a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through his chest.
"Yeah, boss…" Oswald forced a laugh, keeping his composure. "She's really making a splash, isn't she? Gotham's own knight in shining armor."
Carmine shook his head, returning to his shot. "A knight? More like a pawn, Oz. Remember, in this city, everyone has a price or a breaking point. We just need to find hers."
Oswald nodded, a hollow agreement as he watched the news loop back to Alexandra's determined face. She's different, Carmine. Maybe she's what this city needs… someone who actually cares, he mused silently, almost to himself.
As he turned back to the screen, Oswald's thoughts churned as intensely as the whiskey in his glass. Alexandra had stirred something within him—a flicker of hope, perhaps, or a challenge to his long-held beliefs about the inevitable corruption and decay in Gotham. Whatever it was, he knew things were about to change, and for the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure which side of the change he wanted to be on.
Why am I so affected by her ideals? he wondered. Is it just her innocence, or is it something more? Something... genuine?
"She believes she can change Gotham. And what's worse, I want to believe it too," Oswald's thoughts were a whirlwind of doubt and unfamiliar hopes. "But at what cost? For her, for me?"
Carmine's voice sliced through his reverie once more, harsh and jarring. "Mark my words, Oz, we'll see how long her kind of hope lasts in the real world."
Oswald's grip tightened around his glass, his knuckles whitening. She's more than just a pretty face, more than just another name to you, Carmine. But you wouldn't understand. You can't see past your own greed.
Despite his rising anger, Oswald managed a nod, his face neutral. He couldn't afford to show his dissent, not here, not with Carmine watching. But she's different, he argued silently to himself. She might just be what we need... What I need.
As he watched carmine return to his game, a plan began to form in Oswald's mind, pieces moving into place with the same precision with which Carmine lined up his pool shots. Protect her, his mind whispered, a directive that felt both revolutionary and terrifying. Because maybe, just maybe, she can actually make a difference.
Song: Lights out – Sonn, Ayelle
The next morning, Alexandra relaxed in her penthouse. The panoramic windows offered a stunning view of Gotham, illuminated by the morning sun, as she poured herself a cup of coffee in the open-plan kitchen.
She then sat down on one of the plush black leather couches near the grand piano, turning on the TV to catch up on the morning news. The headlines were all about her recent actions—she was being hailed as "The Knight of Gotham," a title that weighed heavily on her despite the honor it conveyed.
As she watched the coverage unfold, Alexandra pondered the implications of her newfound fame. The LaCroix family, to which she belonged, had always maintained a low profile, successfully keeping the media at bay. But now, as her face and deeds were broadcast across the city, she worried about the potential exposure of her true identity and the impact it might have on her family's secretive legacy.
The news segment shifted to a panel discussion, with experts analyzing her impact on the city's crime rates and her role as a symbol of hope. Alexandra listened intently, her thoughts a mix of determination and concern. She knew her actions were reshaping Gotham's landscape, and while the recognition was affirming, it also brought a host of new challenges.
She finished her coffee and stood up, the cityscape sprawling out before her. As the broadcast concluded, Alexandra was already planning her next moves, ready to face whatever the day might bring. She was committed to her role as Gotham's knight, driven by a duty to protect and inspire, regardless of the personal cost.
Alderic was the first to send his congratulations. His message arrived bright and early, filled with the usual elder brother pride and a touch of formal eloquence that Alexandra both admired and found amusing. Soon after, Xavier, Damien, and Celine followed suit, each text and voicemail adding layers of joy and support to her morning. However, the tone shifted when she played the voice note from her mother.
In soft, concerned French, her mother said, "Alex, my heart swells with pride for your bravery, but please, be cautious. Gotham is no Paris; its shadows are deep and dark." Her words lingered in Alexandra's mind, a gentle echo of warnings she'd heard since her assignment to the GCPD had been made public.
Wrapped in her robe, Alexandra stood by the kitchen counter of her high-rise apartment, sipping coffee as the morning news flickered on the screen. The city was just waking up, but Gotham's restless energy never truly slept. As she scanned the headlines detailing the usual cocktail of political dramas and late-night crimes, her work phone buzzed insistently. A dozen new notifications lit up the screen—messages from reporters and news outlets, all clamoring for the first interview with Gotham's newest detective star.
Amidst the flood of professional inquiries, one text message caught her eye, its tone starkly different:
Alexandra's phone buzzed quietly beside her steaming mug of coffee. Glancing down, she caught sight of a message that didn't fit the usual flood of requests and congratulations from news outlets:
"Congratulations doll, ya famous now – can I get an autograph miss rising star?"
The casual tone and overly familiar nickname made her tense up immediately. A hint of a smirk she couldn't quite suppress played on her lips as she muttered under her breath in French, "Imbécile."
She knew that tone all too well—it had to be Oswald Cobblepot. Only he would dare to blend sarcasm with a creepy endearment at a time like this. Even his text carried that annoying smirk she could imagine plastered on his face.
Choosing to leave the message unanswered, Alexandra sipped her coffee, her thoughts darkening. Cobblepot's casual reach into her personal space was a stark reminder of the tangled webs she had to navigate in Gotham.
Song: Entombed – Deftones
Alex decides she needs a break from the demands of her new role and the probing eyes of the media. Opting for a casual look that would let her enjoy the rare Gotham sunshine, she pulls on a grey tank top—simple, yet effective for soaking in some much-needed vitamin D. She pairs it with black jeans and tugs on her riding boots, practical yet stylish enough for a midday outing.
Before heading out, she straps on her motorcycle armor vest, an essential piece of gear that combines protection with comfort. She grabs her black helmet, securing it under her arm as she steps out of her apartment.
The sun feels good on her skin as she mounts her bike, the streets of Gotham sprawling before her like veins of an intricate organism. With "Entombed" by Deftones playing through her earphones, Alex feels a momentary escape from her burdens, the music syncing perfectly with her mood and the bike's rhythm.
She weaves through traffic with practiced ease, the cityscape a blur around her. People on the sidewalk turn into mere smudges of color as she zooms past, the wind pulling at her hair beneath the helmet.
Her destination is a popular local spot known as "The Morning Grind," a bar and diner that boasts the best breakfast menu and a laid-back vibe perfect for Gotham's eclectic crowd. It's a place where night owls come to roost after a long evening, and early birds fuel up for the day.
As she pulls into the parking lot, Alex kills the engine and swings off her bike. She removes her helmet, shaking out her hair as she takes in the scene. Among the usual array of vehicles, two cars stand out: a plum Maserati and a sleek black Cadillac.
Parking her bike, Alex locks it up and heads into The Morning Grind, ready for a meal and perhaps a little eavesdropping. It's Gotham, after all—every outing has the potential to turn into an investigation or an unexpected alliance. And with the cars parked outside, today could be more interesting than most.
Helmet in one hand and still clad in her bike armor vest, Alexandra strides into "The Morning Grind," the familiar clink and clatter of dishes setting a comforting backdrop to her entrance. The diner's warm, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon greets her as she takes a seat at a barstool near the cashier, a prime spot for a bit of people-watching, should the mood strike her.
She places her order with the waiter, asking for a cappuccino and Eggs Benedict—her go-to comfort meal. While waiting, she makes a conscious decision to tune out the rest of the diner. Today, she isn't Detective Victiore; she's just Alex, a local seeking some respite. She senses a few curious glances from other patrons but chooses to ignore them, focusing instead on unwinding.
The owner of the diner, Ben, notices her sitting alone and ambles over. He's a robust man in his late sixties, with a thick shock of silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard that speaks to his meticulous nature. His eyes, bright and lively despite his years, always seem to twinkle with a hint of mischief. Ben wears his usual attire—a classic white apron over a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms weathered by years of hard work but still strong and capable.
Ben, spotting Alexandra sitting alone at the bar amidst the usual lunchtime bustle, decides to make an introduction. With a confident stride and a warm smile, he approaches her.
"Hi there, you're Alex, right? I saw you on the news the other day—Gotham's new knight in shining armor, or should I say, armor vest?" he jokes, extending his hand in greeting. "I'm Ben, the owner. I always try to meet the new faces, especially those who seem a bit too serene for our rowdy bunch."
Alex laughs softly, accepting the handshake. "Nice to meet you, Ben. I guess I do stand out a bit in this crowd, don't I? Just here trying to enjoy some normalcy, away from all that."
"Well, I can offer you good food and maybe better company," Ben chuckles, gesturing for her to order. "What brings you in today? Anything special you're after?"
"Just the best Eggs Benedict you have, and maybe that cappuccino you boast about," Alex replies, settling into the conversation.
"You've come to the right place. Our Benedict is the best in town, and I'll throw in the cappuccino on the house if it's not the best you've had," Ben promises with a wink, signaling the waiter to put through her order.
As they chat, the conversation shifts from light-hearted banter about Alex's role in the city to her favorite escapes within Gotham. Ben's easy charm makes her feel more at ease, a pleasant change from the intensity of her usual days.
During a brief lull, Ben's eyes light up with an idea. "You know, we sometimes have live music here on weekends. Nothing big, just a way to keep things lively. You look like someone who might enjoy that sort of thing."
Alex nods, her interest piqued. "I do enjoy good music. Back in the day, I used to sing a bit myself."
"Really? If you feel like giving it a go, I could consider it your audition for a regular gig here. Two songs and today's meal is on the house. What do you say?"
Amused and a little tempted by the challenge, Alexandra agrees. "Why not? Let's make this lunch a bit more interesting."
Alexandra felt a slight excitement thrill as she approached the small stage in the corner of "The Morning Grind." The piano sat there, an old but well-loved fixture of the diner, its ivory keys gleaming under the overhead lights. She settled onto the bench, her fingers brushing over the keys with a reverent touch, feeling their familiar coolness beneath her fingertips. The chatter in the diner quieted as the patrons turned their attention toward her, curious about the impromptu performance.
Song: je te laisserai des mots – Patric Watson, Cover by marianne beaulieu
As Alexandra began the opening chords of "Je te laisserai des mots" by Patrick Watson, her voice soft but clear, the mood in the diner shifted. The hauntingly beautiful melody filled the room, wrapping the audience in a gentle embrace. Her French was flawless, each word delivered with a heartfelt emotion that resonated deeply:
"Je te laisserai des mots
Under your door
Underneath the front door mat
In the mailbox, where you'll see them
Brightly shown"
Her eyes closed as she sang, the lyrics a tender promise to leave love notes in the simplest of places, ensuring they'd be found and cherished. The patrons listened, some enraptured by the romantic language, others simply swayed by the emotion in her voice.
"I'll leave you words
On the fridge, on the light switch
In your pockets, where you'll feel
Something tangible of me"
As she transitioned into the chorus, her fingers danced more confidently over the piano keys, the melody swelling in a beautiful crescendo that filled the diner with a warm, embracing sound. Her voice, mixed with the gentle piano, created a poignant atmosphere, drawing a few patrons to nod in tune, completely captivated.
Song: Call Your Mom" by Noah Kahan, Cover by marianne beaulieu
The song ended to a soft chorus of applause. Alexandra took a moment to gather herself, touched by the response, before shifting to a lighter mood with her next song, "Call Your Mom" by Noah Kahan. This song brought a change of pace, its upbeat melody and heartfelt lyrics drawing a few smiles and tapping feet, lightening the atmosphere after the introspective start.
The contrast between the thoughtful melancholy of the first song and the upbeat, reflective nature of the second showcased not only her versatility as a singer but also her ability to read and respond to her audience.
Ben, watching from behind the counter, clapped the loudest, his face alight with appreciation. "That was wonderful, Alex! Truly, you've got a gift," he shouted over the applause.
Alexandra bowed slightly, a flush of pleasure warming her cheeks at the praise. As she stepped off the stage, the weight of her daily responsibilities seemed lighter, her spirit buoyed by the music and the warm reception. Her interaction with Ben, the simple joy of the performance, had transformed what started as just another day into a memorable moment, reminding her why she cherished these small escapes in her challenging life in Gotham.
-OZ POV-
Oz slouched comfortably in one of the darker corners of "The Morning Grind," a cup of black coffee in hand, inconspicuously surveying the room through the thick haze of his morning solitude. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing, the perfect vantage point for a man used to keeping tabs without being noticed.
The door swung open, and in walked a familiar figure that immediately caught his attention— Alex, with a bike helmet tucked under one arm and wearing a bike armor vest that hugged her frame in all the right places. "God, she's so friggin' hot," Oz thought to himself.
He watched her stride confidently to the bar, her movements fluid and utterly assured. She had a way about her that screamed strength and a bit of mystery—exactly the kind that always piqued his interest. As she laughed and chatted casually with Ben, the owner, Oz's interest deepened. She wasn't just another pretty face; she carried herself with a presence that was hard to ignore.
They exchanged a few words, and though Oz couldn't catch the conversation, it was clear they were on good terms—friendly even. It wasn't long before he saw her walking over to the piano situated by a small stage set up for singers and karaoke nights. The morning light streamed in through the front windows, illuminating her as if she were meant to be the center of attention.
As she sat down and started playing the piano, Oz leaned back, his eyes never leaving her. He couldn't help but be captivated. She began to sing, her voice carrying across the diner, filling the space with a sound that was both haunting and beautiful. It was one of those moments that made him pause, made him take in something good amidst the usual chaos of his life in Gotham.
"Damn," Oz muttered under his breath, genuinely impressed. She wasn't just some cop; she was talented, a hidden gem in this gritty city. As she continued to sing, Oz felt a rare pull, an intrigue that went beyond the usual games of power and survival he played. Here was someone who might just be as complex and layered as the city they both inhabited.
Unable to keep to his corner any longer, Oz found himself walking over to her, the low whistle escaping his lips almost subconsciously.
-END POV-
She turned toward the sound, her gaze meeting Oswald Cobblepot. He stood there in a crisp white dress shirt paired with a checkered waistcoat and black pants, his usual jacket absent, revealing his tall, stocky, and broad figure—an imposing presence.
"That performance, doll... I'd pay 10 grand to hear ya voice again," Oz said, his voice rich with a hearty chuckle as he took a seat next to her, sipping his coffee.
Ben, the owner, noticed Oswald—the notorious Penguin, right-hand man to Carmine Falcone—sitting next to Alex. Ben's expression flickered with recognition and wariness, but he masked it quickly, asking if Oz needed more coffee. Oz caught the hint of discomfort in Ben's demeanor but chose to ignore it, focusing instead on Alex.
"Ya singin's beautiful, real emotional," Oz continued, trying to draw her into conversation. "Those songs were somethin' else. What made ya pick 'em?" He leaned in slightly, genuinely curious about her response, his earlier bravado softening into something resembling earnest interest.
Alex: I don't know... it's just what I feel like singing, I guess.
Oz: Ya really are something special, aren't ya?
Alex: She brushes off Oz's compliment, her tone neutral. "I'm just like everyone else. What do you want, Cobblepot?"
Oz: Relax, toots. I'm just making small talk here, not tryin' to pry. How about we keep this light, huh? Just Oz and Alex chatting—no Detective or...
Alex: "...Mobster?" Alex adds, with a quizzical raise of her eyebrow.
Oz: Yeah, sure, if that works for ya.
They fell into a lull, the clink of glass and murmur of the diner filling the silence. Alex seemed uninterested in pushing the conversation further.
Oz, unable to leave things be, ventured again, "Ya really don't like me, do ya? What exactly did I do to get such a cold shoulder?"
Alex's response was cool and measured, "You haven't done anything to me personally—it's your reputation that's enough."
Oz quirked an eyebrow, swirling his coffee. "Ya believe every whisper ya hear about me?"
"Not everything," Alex said, her tone firm, "but I've seen enough myself, and I'm not naive, Cobb."
"Mmm," Oz murmured, his gaze fixed on the dark swirl of his coffee. "So, if I wasn't the bad mobster you've pegged me as, would ya talk to me?"
Their eyes met briefly, a flicker of curiosity in hers before she looked away, sealing the conversation with her disinterest.
Alex shot him a sidelong glance, squinting a bit before looking away. "That's the thing—you are."
Oz shook his head, a smirk tinged with frustration. "Ya really don't like givin' a guy a straight answer, do ya?"
"Yeah," Alex replied bluntly.
Oz let out a deep sigh, pushing himself to stand. "Alright, alright. I ain't gonna stick around if all I'm doin' is sourin' your mornin'. Ya got a voice like an angel, but I guess I'm just the devil messin' it up."
Oz had just pushed himself halfway up from his seat when Alex's voice stopped him. He blinked, then slowly lowered himself back, his brows lifting in curiosity.
"Huh... okay," he murmured, a small smile pulling at his lips, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but carried genuine surprise. He wasn't expecting her to stop him.
Alex kept her eyes on her cup, her fingers lightly tracing its rim. She let out a sigh, almost as if speaking aloud took more effort than she expected. "Those songs... the first one, I wrote it for a childhood love of mine. He was my everything back then. The second one was for a friend I had in France," she paused, her voice softening, "she was suicidal. I had to call her mom because I knew I wouldn't reach her in time."
Oz leaned back, lips pressed into a line as he listened. He grunted softly, an awkward noise that escaped before he had anything proper to say. Words didn't come easy for him when it came to things like this.
Oz leaned in slightly, a sly grin on his face. "So, how old are ya anyway?"
Alex rolled her eyes, a smirk forming. "Why? Afraid I'm too young for ya, old man?"
Oz's hand tightened slightly around his coffee cup, knuckles whitening. He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Aye aye, doll, I ain't old, alright? Life just ain't been all that kind to me. I'm thirty-four. How 'bout you?"
"Twenty-five," she answered, watching his reaction.
Oz's grin widened, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Lovely age, doll. Full of promise." He tilted his head, studying her. "Got any family?"
Alex glanced back at her coffee, her smile turning a bit softer, a genuine warmth crossing her features. "Yeah, two amazing parents, a sister who's all about fashion, and three overly protective brothers. I'm the baby of the bunch."
Oz let out a playful groan, shaking his head. "Ah, so when ya finally invite me over, I gotta brace for the brothers givin' me the ol' tough guy act, huh? Sounds like I got a rough night ahead of me."
She turned to him with a raised brow and deadpanned, "Dans tes rêves."
Oz blinked, a look of mock confusion on his face, before shrugging it off with a laugh. "A'ight, a'ight, I don't speak fancy language, but I get the gist. So where they all at, anyway?"
He was met with her amused smirk, though she didn't bother translating. The lightness in her eyes seemed to dance between irritation and something almost amused.
Alex took a deep breath, her eyes shifting down to her coffee. "Mom and Dad are back in Vermont. The rest of them? Scattered all over the US for work." She paused, deciding not to mention Celine.
"We moved from France about a year and a half ago." As she spoke, a flicker of sadness swept across her face, memories of her grandparents' passing stirring a quiet ache she couldn't quite hide.
Oz, leaning in slightly, noticed the change in her expression. He raised a brow, his voice softening just a touch. "France, huh? Sounds like a long way from here, sugar. Somethin' happen?"
Alex looked up, ignoring his question, and turned it back on him instead. "What about you?"
Oz stared into his empty coffee cup, the edges of his mouth twitching slightly as if he were considering how much to share. "Ma's still here in Gotham," he finally said, his voice a bit more gruff. "Had two brothers… ain't around anymore."
Alex's expression softened. "Oh, I'm sorry. Can I ask… what happened to them?"
Oz hesitated, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. He wasn't used to talkin' about this, but something in her eyes made him let his guard down. "One of 'em got caught in a crossfire between the mobs," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "He was in deep with gang shit. The other one... well, I dunno where he is. After my older brother got killed, he split. Just vanished. Tried lookin' for him, but he didn't wanna be found. He was the middle kid, and like you, I'm the youngest."
He gave a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "We didn't have much growin' up. Lived in a real shitty, run-down apartment—shared the place with another family. Things were rough, ya know? But then, outta nowhere, we got this anonymous donation. Some foreign billionaire, supposedly. It was right around the time Thomas Wayne died. Gave us free housing and all that. Still don't know who the hell sent it, but it kept Ma off the streets." He paused, a mix of bitterness and disbelief lingering in his voice.
It wasn't like him to spill his guts like this, but there was something about her—maybe it was the way she listened, or maybe he just needed someone to hear it, even if she didn't like him much.
Alex hesitated for a moment, then placed her hand gently over his—small, soft fingers against his large, stocky, calloused ones. "I'm sorry, Oz." Her voice softened, carrying a hint of empathy she rarely let anyone see.
In her mind, she recalled a conversation with her dad. He'd talked about buying up a couple hundred housing facilities to donate to families in need—government workers, families that had nowhere else to go. It dawned on her that maybe Oz's mother lived in one of those homes. A thought crossed her mind: perhaps she could dig up some info on his brother, maybe even help find him. Who knew, maybe it'd keep Oz from staying so wrapped up in the mob life.
Before she could say anything more, Oz gave a slight grin and shifted the mood. "Oz?" he repeated, leaning in a bit. "Doll, say my name again, will ya? Sounded real good comin' off your lips, buttercup."
Alex rolled her eyes, her hand slipping away from his. The moment of connection seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced with the usual push-and-pull between them.
Oz leaned back slightly, his expression shifting into one of curiosity, though he kept his voice casual. "So, that childhood love o' yours," he said, nodding towards the piano. "The one ya sang about—he still around?"
Alex eyed him, a subtle smirk tugging at her lips. "Why? You jealous?"
He paused for a beat, then gave a crooked grin. "Yeah, maybe I am."
For the first time, Alex turned fully to face him. She raised an eyebrow, her eyes meeting his with a glint of mischief. "Tu es vraiment un homme charmant. Malheureusement, vous vous balancez avec les truands."
Oz blinked, momentarily thrown off by how stunning she looked up close, her words flowing like a melody he didn't quite understand but wanted to hear more of. He shook his head, leaning in slightly, trying to catch his footing again.
"Wazzat, sugar? Told ya, I don't speak that language o' love," he said, an amused smile breaking across his lips. "But I gotta say, I wouldn't mind hearin' ya talk like that all day—specially if it means ya look at me like that. Could look at ya face all day, no problem."
Alex held his gaze, her expression softening just a bit, though there was still a guarded edge to it. "I said it's a shame you're a mobster. If you weren't, maybe then I'd be open to a civil, friendly conversation with you."
Oz leaned forward, the corners of his mouth curling into a hopeful smirk. "So if I wasn't a mobsta, ya'd give me a shot, huh? Like... a chance for dinner? Little get-ta-know-ya kinda thing?"
Song: Youth – Daughter
Alex paused, her gaze wavering for a heartbeat before she replied, "...no."
Oz's expression faltered, the hurt clear in his eyes for a fleeting moment. He stared at her, silent, his eyes softening in the way they did when he looked at his mom during her worst days. He let out a slow sigh, nodding as if coming to terms with something. "A'ight, doll... I get it. I'll get outta your hair. Seems like my company's not as welcome as I thought." He forced a smile, rising from his seat, the usual bravado dropping just a little. "Back to the mobsters, I guess."
He turned, shoulders heavy, as he headed away, leaving Alex at the bar.
Alex watched him leave, her expression unreadable, and then shook her head slightly, standing up herself. She ignored the way Oz had looked at her, brushing it off. She moved to the counter to say goodbye to Ben, who gave her an encouraging smile.
"Come back soon, alright? I want to hear that voice again," Ben said warmly.
Alex smiled genuinely for the first time in a while, nodding. "I will, Ben. Thanks." She waved, feeling a bit lighter as she left, though a small, inexplicable weight lingered in her chest.