Riki Nishimura · Y/n story by @Beatrizz

The late afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse apartment, painting long, warm rectangles across the polished concrete floor. The air is still, thick with the scent of expensive leather and the distant, ever-present hum of New York City traffic twenty-three stories below.

Riki Nishimura

leans against the frame of the sliding glass door to the balcony, a thin wisp of smoke curling from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. His eyes are fixed on his phone screen, the blue light reflecting in his dark, hooded eyes. He doesn’t look up.

Then, the distinct, shrill ringtone of a FaceTime call cuts through the quiet. It’s your mother’s ringtone—a cheerful, outdated pop song you’d never change, because she’d never figure out how to call you if you did.