Again, the sun sinks down below the cold and unmoving buildings which towered over the streets of Sacrosanct in all their cold steel and glass indifference. One by one, those light posts ignite the darkening city, a blinding beacon for night-goes as they made their way back to wherever it was they called home, or perhaps to work if they were one of those individuals working a graveyard shift at some care center or twenty-four-hour establishment. And, again, the dark hunter finds himself walking through the less traveled west side of the city, an unsightly and even less savory place most of the population tended to avoid â€" especially during the twilight hours. It was assumed that only trouble-makers and criminals looking to begin their illegal operations would be wandering between the graffitied and abandoned buildings, occupying the damp and rank alleyways while they waited for some innocent passerby to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was evident from all the unkempt and filthy windows, most of them boarded up to keep the homeless out, that there had once been a number of respectable businesses of various sorts here, unable to sustain themselves on the lack of income or public interest and thusly forced to close their doors and either relocate or shut down altogether. The houses here were tattered, worn down, and dark, a large majority of the windows pitch black or having their curtains and blinds drawn so that very little light would shine through as if to suggest no one was awake, an air of distrust hanging heavy in the atmosphere here, though it was entirely likely they were this way for good reason. This was where the poverty came into view, the people living in this part of the city barely managing to make ends meet and fearful of those that walked through the shadows with hooded sweaters drawn over their faces and hands shoved into pants pockets likely to be hiding a weapon or drugs. While the heart of the city was not without its sirens from emergency responders or police, it was the west side of Sacrosanct that most of the cops tended to patrol most in a futile attempt to "clean up" the streets. It was a vicious cycle, and one that Lazarus would have likely been an active part in.

He looks almost every bit the part of someone involved in such things, messy caramel-colored locks still damp from the shower he'd taken not long ago at the one place quickly becoming the only place he could drown out everything but the very moment he was in. Dark forest eyes betraying only the ever-present agitation unsettling the monster pacing along the corroded and weakened bars of his cold and distant self look ahead with disinterest, hardly caring to glance even just briefly at the sparse individuals bold enough to walk the dark streets either alone or with a companion. He was far from concerned that any would be foolish enough to try and jump him, the creature in the darkness of his jaded and seething heart hardened to stone cold as ice nearly hopeful someone might, if anything. It would serve as an excuse to beat the hell out of something which was not a punching bag to suffer from the seemingly endless agitation so easily invoked. He'd only just finished working out at the shady twenty-four-hour gym he'd happened upon by mere chance about a month ago, his sweat-slicked gym shorts and black tank top tucked into the backpack slung over his left shoulder, the other strap dangling loosely as he walked those dark and dangerous streets lit up by the few towering lights which were not burned out and still acting as a beacon against the sky which has now become black and void of those last dying rays. Strong hands are shoved into the depths of his black cargo shorts, a cleaned pewter gray form-fitting t-shirt hugging against his well-defined torso to hint at his chiseled chest, features that have only become thicker as his almost desperate attempts to forget her drove the dark hunter to push his physical limits to their breaking point, until he could no longer able to lower that steel bar baring increasingly heavy weights only to lift it over himself in another repetition. He would force himself into those strong arms were shaking before finally setting the device back onto its resting place over the bench, the man sweat slicked and lingering there for a moment as his chest would rise and fall from the demands of his workout.

He wouldn't stop there, though. No, she would still be there, lingering in the shadows of his mind. With frustration flickering across chiseled features, he would move on to another workout, this too becoming yet another vicious cycle as Lazarus fought to rid himself of those silken white locks, her warm and soft skin, those plush and... delicious lips. The man would even bring a flask with him to the gym, hoping that mixing the two things that have proved useful as a temporary remedy. And they did. As the familiar and comfortable haze would numb his mind, those practiced exercises made fierce demands from every part of his strong and well-built frame and further delved into the one place she wasn't. Until finally his body could take no more and forced him to stop. Then, he would feel those fucking thoughts beginning to make their way back to him... He would be there long after even the most dutiful of men were ready to call it quits for the night, gathering up their towel and disappearing into the public showers or even just departing from the gym to head home and clean up there. He would still be pushing himself for as long as the dark hunter could manage, forcing even his own supernatural strength to work to the point where even it could not seem to take any more. Entirely aware of his body's limits, and yet defiantly testing them so that he could feel the relief that exhaustion gave him. It was always far too short-lived for Lazarus, his frame always threatening to give beneath the demands he made of it before he was ready to allow for the very things he was attempting to elude the chance to return. It was infuriating, how even when the liquor did not seem to take the edge off anymore, this new habit of his did little more than those bottles of whiskey the man could down all too easily. It was like the gods were taunting him, affording him only a taste of what he sought just to keep it out of his grasp for more than a short while. Torture at its fucking finest, that was what he thought about the tantalizingly brief release he was able to find there among the cold steel, heavy weights, and padded mats that filled the confines of the run-down building most wouldn't have considered a suitable place for a workout center.

In the end, he knew that he would have to go home at some point, but it was within those four walls that he truly couldn't escape the memory of the woman that vexed him to no end. His sister only worsened the matter when she would look at him with such concern when he would only just be stepping into the townhouse as dawn brought with it another morning he would sleep through. Or, worse yet, she would start fussing about where the witch was, why her friend hasn't replied to her countless texts or calls. He just couldn't handle it. And yet, how absolutely coincidental it was that Lazarus would find himself on the west side of the city only to take up a membership at the gym there when he could have just as easily found one on the east side, far away from the warehouse district where he knew the white-haired witch lived. He would be lying to say he wasn't aware of how close he was to her place, refusing to admit to any part of himself the temptation he warred fiercely against to wander through the abandoned alleyways and find those familiar steel doors he knew to contain the place where the unthinkable had happened. The first time had been easy enough to consider largely unintended. He hadn't expected for the witch to stir the beast as she had, leaving him starved for the feel of her. It was easy enough to blame the alcohol for the very thing he had sworn he would never do, reminding himself how much he hated her. However, the second time... There was no excuse his mind could find that would even been remotely effective in using for the sheer lust he fought stubbornly against and lost miserably to. Why now? Why, of all the fucking women in this forsaken goddamn world, it has to be her!? Shit had been bad enough with Isabelle, his ex whom he'd only ever wanted to have a one-night stand with and yet somehow he hadn't been able to get enough of the woman with raven hair, mocha eyes, and devil-red lips. But, even she had faded into the background with the rest of those memories the dark hunter wanted to forget altogether. She had been a mistake, and Lazarus told himself over and over again that Vhalla was, too... so, why, then, could he not get her out of his mind?

Forcibly shoving these thoughts away, the dark hunter finds himself walking along the docks, the rank odors of the harbor and fishing boats assaulting his senses and bringing a grimace to his features. Casting his gaze over to the west where the sun had set, he is hardly admiring the way that the moonlight dances across the rippling and broken surface of the water, staring blankly at the small red light of a buoy flashing against the shadows cast by the large boats creaking and rocking as the saltwater laps almost lazily at their keels and causing them to shift with the quiet lull of the tide. He wanders, hardly ready to go home despite the tightness of his muscles that screamed for him to stop and rest somewhere. He does not know how long he walks along the boardwalk, only that after some time has passed, he reaches the other side of the docks, and it was here that dark forest eyes snap up to read the sign â€" reading "Gulls" â€" hanging just outside an old and tattered building when the scent of cigarette smoke comes as a welcomed distraction. Lifting a brow at the name of the bar, he doesn't allow for himself to muse about the strange name. Since moving to Sacrosanct, he's visited The VooDoo Room and Red On The Water, so by now the man was all too used to the strange names the business owners of the city seemed to enjoy. Instead, he lets himself in through the worn wooden door, dark forest eyes adjusting easily to the dim lighting of the bar surprisingly filled with patrons. No one so much as batted an eye as the dark hunter walks over scuffed hardwood flooring and straight to the bar, hardly glancing at the unfamiliar faces at the booths lining the opposite wall or the tables at the center of things. Tossing his backpack onto to floor next to one of the stools, he slides into place beside another man seeming caught up in his own thoughts for the time being, Lazarus hardly taking any time to regard the stranger before waving down the pretty blonde bartender.

"Whiskey. Doesn't matter what brand, but make it double", he orders then, tenor tones far from courteous or warm. She simply nods after studying the man for a moment, and just the way that she looks at him is enough for Lazarus to expect her to make a remark on how he could stand to be a little more polite, though thankfully she keeps whatever thoughts or opinions she might have about the dark hunter to herself before retrieving a glass and pouring the amber liquor. Placing it on the coaster beside him, there is no thanks that leaves his nearly pursed lips, his hand then reaching to lift the glass and taking a deep drink. He would have enjoyed the smoothness, the hints of oak and spice in the amber liquor as it slips down his throat, but he doesn't. He was here to make yet another pointless attempt to forget what was always following him, brows practically knitted together in that ever-brooding expression as his gaze fixates upon the bottles lining the shelf behind the bar. And, of course, of all the bottles that his gaze has to rest over for more than a few seconds, it was a bottle of vodka. Recognizing it at the same exact brand the white-haired woman had been drinking the night they'd first met in that burlesque, his eyes narrow even further, hands tightening around his drink and jaw clenching for a moment. The world just wanted him to remember her it seemed, and he hated that he even recognizes the damn bottle. It was like no matter what he did, he couldn't get away from her! And it pissed him off to no end! It was the girlish giggles on the other end of the bar that manage to catch his attention then, the dark hunter turning to see two women â€" a redhead and brunette â€" whispering among one another as their eyes shifted between one another and back towards either Lazarus or the man beside him. Before, he would have hardly hesitated to join them, to see which one he might be able to share a bed with for the evening, and yet it was the furthest thing from his mind as of late. He would have enjoyed being able to sleep with a perfect stranger and leave before she woke the following morning so that he might try and forget the one who haunted him. Instead, he just rolls his eyes and resumes staring at the display of liquors for his next drink, and all because he couldn't just stop thinking about the one he wanted nothing more than to forget for good.