#﹠⠀ ⠀ 𝐃. 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐊 ⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀abt

[mustdies]

INTRODUCING YOUR FAVORITE BOTTLE-BLONDED SKEPTIC, THE REBEL. KNOWN MOST AFFECTIONATELY AS DANTE, HATER OF AUTHORITY & LOVER OF CARTHEFT.

NAMED DANTE NEVEK. KNOWN AS DON, DANNY. DOB OCTOBER 15TH, 1977. PLACE OF BIRTH AGADIR, MOROCCO. GENDER CIS MAN. PRONOUNS HE/HIM. ORIENTATION DEMISEXUAL. OCCUPATION PRO BOXER, POLITICAL ORGANIZER. FACECLAIM EMILIO SAKRAYA. POSITIVE TRAITS ASTUTE, DEVOTED, OBSERVANT. NEGATIVE TRAITS REPRESSED, CYNICAL, IMPULSIVE. RESIDENCE. CONVERTED FLAT IN BROOKLYN, NY. HEIGHT. SIX FOOT ONE INCH. EYES. DARK BROWN, FAWNING. HAIR. BLEACH BLOND, CROPPED SIDES + WAVY TEXTURE. ANNOMALIES. HEAVILY TATTOOED, FEW HAPHAZARD SCARS FROM FIGHTING BOTH IN THE RING AND OTHERWISE.

PRELUDE

you are coddled between the murky nowhere wedged between dreamy isle’s of palm & discarded american dreams. you’re a young thing with stars in your eyes; the others see this and smother you in their palms until you’re merely a streak of shimmering stardust because dreams aren’t for survivors. because your mother never wanted to be a mother and your father wasn’t the kind of man she’d trust with her heart, let alone you with your chubby hands and big eyes. giving you up was just the right thing to do, but at the very least, didn’t you deserve to dream a moment longer ? as it turns out, dreams are riddled inconsequential for little boys with hardly enough belongings to cram into a tattered napsack. but so long as you have the room for it, you hold onto this one thing: you’ll get out of here one day & by god, you won’t look back.

you’re nine when you pickpocket your first tourist, and ten when you successfully pull your first con. the descent is unseen, but occurs quicker than you realize and before you know you’re no longer the one cowling beneath the wings of those who came before you. you’re still the boy with the bright eyes but now, you’ve got even brighter ideas & happen to know your way around a shoddy hot wiring job or two. suddenly you’re fourteen with hardly a lick of peach fuzz dotting your features when you first become a ward of the court & you’re fifteen when a man who you had never known existed makes you one of the lucky ones. rather than aging out of a system that you had spent too long outrunning, you are withdrawn from juvenile holding on account of being placed beneath his conservatorship.

ACT ONE

sooner than you know, everything & everyone you’d known including your self-professed sibling with the kind eyes and the slit in his lip merely faded into a sunny break on the horizon. upstate new york becomes your new home & if you are to stay out of trouble you are made to make yourself something useful. days spent siphoning old gas & racing through the odd junctions of your seaside town come nightfall turn into even longer days as an unfavored ward. as you saw it, not even the dusty summer heat could sweat out that streak for havoc you had come to learn to know so far before your time—even seas away, you couldn’t outrun the law. teen years are spent pinned to the hoods of county cruisers just to be out of the pin come the end of the week while stark dreams continue to fade. 

ACT TWO

you spend your latter years giving hell to whatever boarding schools your guardian could enlist you in. become someone different, still a blaring asteroid, but some of your edges have refined. you learn what it means to be a society man—how to properly despise such a title. though these efforts were not made to entirely change you, rather, another outlet was found. instead of brawling with whomever looked at you funnily enough, the largest portion of your time was spent training in mixed martial arts. if you're going to be violent, you will learn to honor your craft.

ACT THREE

as a young man, you fall into sync with the ballad of a runaway train, horn steadily blaring as you utterly veer off the rails while onlookers can merely speculate in utter horror. luckily enough, you’re not the only one in this dusty old house pushed to your brink out of boredom so you slot well into your place with the rest of the small town miscreants, the only difference is the tan of your skin but in time you would even adapt their mixed lilt; even if you didn’t quite look it, you were one of them & the truth is, you were no better than the rest. it’s a damn miracle you make it out of woodrow in one piece: running off into the night when you’re old enough, leaving nothing but tire marks in the driveway & a number richard could contact you at in the future. now you’ve been running laps in the game for too long, and the only thing you’ve been left to wonder is if this was the dream you had so fervently chased as a child.

AESTHETIC

james dean chic meets streetwear final boss. breezy linen button-ups, undone by the first two buttons. perpetually bruised, walking into the room like god sent him. adorns at least five tattoos he has no recollection of getting in the first place. bottle blond with a knack for trouble. smelling like camel cigarettes & sandalwood.

HEACANONS

ever in motion, always leaning in a doorway or drumming his fingers along the edge of a table.

easy to call, hard to get in contact with. has a phone but will likely not answer lest prompted by his manager; harder to contact since richard's passing.

began prizefighting at eighteen, became a super wba titleholder in 2002.

did not pursue higher education following high school but currently runs a community-led organization in brooklyn to help the underserved youth in the area stay out of trouble.

hairtrigger temper which is highly exasterbated under stress/pressure. sooner to seclude those he's close to before allowing them to be involved in his mess. needs a therapist sooo bad.

technically, the last time dante was seen at woodrow house was seven years ago. however, he was last present on the property five years ago per the request of richard. the reasoning and his appearance at large is still broadly unknown to the rest of the wards.

secretly really enjoys tennis, catch this man at the yearly u.s. open & wimbledon with your favorite wag on his arm.

got into political organizing around the age of thirteen after rallying a small network of underserved youth (for better or worse) against the local government. was arrested shortly thereafter for inciting civil unrest.

really into running, has ran at least a mile a day since he was seventeen.

[mustdies]

it's too early for a drink, so dante instead prepared for a run. it was a distraction, but also an indulgence had he allowed it to become one. the vice of regimen: such inevitability had very easily become a drug. " yeah well, fuck you too. " he's got a mouthful of sharded glass, though there is no weight behind any of it. no intention to draw blood. everything hurts and still, something cheshire creeps upon visage. he allows her to hug him, brief stutter as if not yet realizing he wouldn't shatter her merely by hugging back. so he does, though he doesn't share her same intent to practically realign his spine. when they finally depart, dante allows himself to inspect her. it's like watching a fisherman inspect the daily batch of crab: he could not ignore the imperfections. though he does not say it, or so he thinks, he throws her a look that says: you might be givin' me a run for my money. " you're joking with me right⸺" brow raises, snide amusement playing across features. half of these people wouldn't know solidarity if it bit em' on the ass. hand finds her chin absently, turns her head so he could oggle her fading black eye. maybe they really were twins. " where'd you get this one from? "

where: the woodrow house when: saturday morning who: @mustdies

One glance at Dante—freshly flown in from a prize fight, with a bruised face that could’ve been a perfect match to Reece’s—and Reece was already struggling to hold back another tinny fit of macabre laughter; an inappropriate giggle escaped unbidden, and she supposed it wouldn’t be the last one she’d let out this week. Dick would probably appreciate the symmetry. “Whoa, you look like shit,” is the first quip out of Reece’s mouth, and it’d probably seem a lot snarkier were it not for the fact that she followed it by pulling Dante into a quick and wordless—though it’s tight, probably too tight—hug. Then, thinking on her feet: “I, uh, I tried to get the others to bust their faces up, too—y’know, in solidarity—but I couldn’t get anyone to go for it. Guess I’m the only one around here who understands loyalty. I thought the matching would really make a statement, too.”