#and of course the hospital is in the middle of a residential area with nothing in walking distance lmao

[six-of-ravens]

today's horrible quest was to drive my dad to the hospital in my hometown for a medical procedure (nothing serious he just needs a bit of anesthetic so he can't drive himself).

made it here okay, but dad has no idea how long it'll be and he's like "yeah you can go drive around and get a coffee or something!" but like. it's been so long I have no idea where anywhere is and I don't wanna try and scavenger hunt a tim hortons...so I'm just stuck sitting in my car for the next ??? hours.

[hwaightme]

Feels Like Home (part 1)

(part 2)

pairing: seonghwa x fem!reader genre: fluff, slight angst, doctor!seonghwa, graphic designer!reader, slice of life summary: What is home? Perplexed by this notion, you spent many years looking for your own answer, moving and running from your past. Your new neighbour, Park Seonghwa, might just be the key to discovery. wordcount: 5.7k warnings: language, mentions of food, mentions of the pandemic, anxiety, mention of past abusive relationships a/n: thank you all so much for the love <3 beyond grateful for you, and am inspired by you! Here is a work on the longer side, so I will be splitting it into two parts, stay tuned~

You lucked out. After having spent over two years migrating from one disastrous excuse for an apartment, to another, you finally felt like you could relax. No more leaks, no more creepy crawlies threatening to fall right on your face in the middle of the night… you shuddered at the memory; no more landlords that enjoyed screaming down the phone at you… you could finally achieve your domestic dreams and lounge at home to your heart’s content.

The apartment itself was on the more ‘compact’ side, located on the ninth floor of a complex in a quiet residential area. The living room, dining room and kitchen were combined, but not overwhelmingly so – everything still had its own area, and in no time did you set up your rather wild collection of plans by the sliding windows. Since the building was fairly new, you did not need to invest much in any repainting or cleaning of the apartment, and by the grace of the landlady who took a liking to you, the deposit was equally reasonable. It was almost worth it going through all the terrors after university, just to appreciate this place.

This was the place that made you understand why some people never wanted to leave their house or area – to be frank, you were turning into one of them. Only leaving on the days you had to, your hybrid work as a graphic and brand designer was becoming better and better, and finally you managed to get rid of the nickname your colleagues gave to you: “true businessman”. Your old place had gotten you used to spending some nights in the office common room, just to avoid the seedy neighbourhood, cracking walls and windows that were threatening to fall out at any second.

Really, it was heaven and earth. What was another very welcome change was the difference in neighbours. Whilst before there was that one elderly couple down the street that ran a tteokbokki stall, sure, they couldn’t exactly make you feel continuously welcome and safe, not when you quite literally had a loan shark knock on your door that one time, and then go “oops sorry wrong address, keep your money in a bank, kid”. Since that day you became the most loyal out of your friends to filling out taxes and budgeting.

In this apartment complex, there was the receptionist downstairs who, without fail, would give you the most reassuring nod humanly possible and then with a rough clearing of the throat, would go back to solving puzzles in the newspaper he subscribed to. There also was the family of four, man and wife and their boy and girl, who lived right down the corridor from you (and who you did hear on occasion, but this was nothing) – total sweethearts, the types of neighbours who left you alone, but in a good mood. And of course, him.

Park Seonghwa.

Lived two doors away and across the corridor from you. Worked as a junior resident at a hospital. A dream of a man. You two clicked instantly; maybe it was the circumstances of your first meeting that did it. You, in an oversized puffer coat, scarf wrapped up to your very eyes and a hat completing your disguise, only the crinkling of the plastic bag in your hands revealing why you were out and about at two thirty-five in the morning. Him, eyes slightly bloodshot, beanie tugged off to reveal a mop of black hair, and what looked to be a while lab coat protruding from layers of rained-on outerwear. Needless to say, both of you made quite a fascinating impression.

“So, what did you cook up in the labs this time of night, good sir?” you tried, too sleep-deprived to not fulfil your need for entertainment.

“Probably something that you were buying, good madam.” Seonghwa shot back at the speed of light, spinning on his heels to face you. You had stopped him right when he was about to unlock his front door. You noted the smirk that was appearing on his lips, and at that moment you decided that he was your type of man.

In your full incognito Mr. Stay-Puft glory you sashayed over to your neighbour, reaching into the bag and taking out a tightly packed cylinder.

“No wonder kimbap is so addictive.”

“Oh no! Not the ultra-classified prototype! Society is in danger!” raising his hands up, acting every part the diva in a low-budget, trashy horror flick, Seonghwa began to charm his way into your heart. So you did what no introvert had ever done before and, upon loosening your scarf slightly, took the risk and… introduced yourself.

“L/N Y/N. Your neighbour from… that door over there. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You bowed your head, momentarily concealing your shy smile.

“Park Seonghwa. The neighbour you just intercepted, and the pleasure is all mine.”

That night you had also made the gutsy move to offer to snack on the kimbap together, which led to the pair of  you having one philosophical discussion after another all through the night, ranging from the basics like ‘how come we did not talk a single time until now’ to the more insightful ‘what hope of yours would you want to reignite’ to the showstopper ‘why was there sound in the Star Wars intergalactic battles’. Probably the last one could be considered your first argument, but you were adults who knew how to communicate over even the most critical matters.

Steadily, you and Seonghwa became practically inseparable and were orbiting around one another even if outside of the complex. Your work schedules somehow complemented one another, and where he had to work night shifts or catastrophically long hours, you would be ready with a comforting meal and a completed chore or two – otherwise mundane and tiring but seeing a grown man giggle because he heard you took the trash out was beyond and became your choice of entertainment. Likewise, if you had project deadlines or particularly stressful client negotiations, Seonghwa would be right at your door, ready to take care of, quite literally, anything you would point at. Not that your friend from college would ever find out, but he was the one texting her back about what laundry detergent she should buy.

As time went on, you also got to see each other at your worst and lowest. His transition into being a full-time medical doctor was met with crash courses in intense epidemiology and volumes of patients unprecedented to him. Returning home after days of barely sitting down and intermittently losing consciousness for minutes of sleep had become a horrendous routine at a certain point. Seonghwa had crashed just about anywhere one could think of. His apartment, yours, even the corridor. And every time, your heart broke just a little, and you would climb close, flinging his arm around your neck and shoulder, and be his guide to a haven.

Though you would never understand the exact pain he felt, nor what he had to see out there and what choices he was forced to make, you tried your best to support Seonghwa how you could. Need more personal protective equipment? You were on it. Need hand sanitiser and antibacterial surface cleaner? Done and stocked up. Need to sit on the floor in silence for an hour and wait until the cacophony of the day stopped echoing in the mind? You were always ready.

It was the night of the 3rd of April, yet Seonghwa did not feel even a little bit happier, nor smarter, nor like he had the right to celebrate. For the most part, he had suppressed the fact that it was his birthday, instead pouring himself out at work until he could barely stand. At that point, like an automaton he followed the command of the doctor on call and trudged home, to the complex. He fell asleep twice on the metro, nearly missing his stop, and could barely walk up the tiny hill that now seemed to be a mountain.

He was fed up. Everything was too much. His own body was an unbearable load he had to carry. How did he fall victim to the illusion that the life of a doctor was one where he would feel gratitude and honour? The longer Seonghwa studied and worked, the more confident he became that no one ever said thank you to a medical professional. No, only blamed them. Blamed them for mistakes they did not make. Blamed them for the risks they did not take. Blamed them for when they tried their hardest, but that still was not enough.

Seonghwa thought of his family. How proud they were when he left his hometown to pursue his dreams at a prestigious university in Seoul. It used to bring him joy to think that the next time he would return for the holidays, his parents would show him off to anyone they could, and his brother would give him a congratulatory pat on the back and share the words ‘I knew you could do it, little bro’. He desperately wanted to return to the time when he still knew little about the field, so that it would not yet be tainted by the true colours of the world.

The wind was unusually cold for April, as though the winter had decided to return for a spring break. The young, fatigued man was fighting a losing battle against the gusts which did little to prevent tears from welling up. Not much longer now. One foot in front of the other. He was attempting to encourage himself to get across the little square in front of his building. In a confused panic when he almost lost his footing because of a hidden rock on the path, he raised his head, pleading for something better than this. Searching for a light.

There it was. A warm hue. Cheerful rays housed in four walls, hinting at a life behind the curtains. The sun that set only when you decided. The windows of your apartment, facing the square. He could imagine you swaying to whatever new release you had discovered, humming along to mask that you did not know the lyrics, cooking away. That was his guiding star.

In brighter spirits, Seonghwa managed to make his way to the ninth floor, where he was promptly greeted by your front door opening, and you in an oversized hoodie inviting him over for dinner once he was done with his second de-scrub and cleaning. Relief washed over him. After you had officially met and cemented yourselves as more than just neighbours, you had been nothing but kind and understanding of him. His work-induced lifestyle did not matter much to you, and you had not commented a single time that he should ‘change his ways’ or ‘go into a different field of medicine’. Over dinner at a local restaurant Seonghwa had explained to you his dreams of being a neurosurgeon, and you had merely lit up in admiration and commended him for his determination and strength.

This evening, too, you were right there for him. Once he had cleaned himself up and was at your door, he was greeted by an array of dishes that you had painstakingly been preparing for a few hours. From the traditional miyeok-guk to pajeon, you had done everything in your power to celebrate Seonghwa, even if it was just for a little, until midnight. That was when the swelling of his heart became too much, and he collapsed onto one of the dining chairs, head in his hands. The tears that had been on the verge of falling for the hours he was working were finally set free, and he could not help but want to hide.

You were taken aback. Never before had you brought anyone to tears. Especially for doing something that you would consider nice. But your intuition told you that there was something more to this, you were not one to judge. Seonghwa had been under pressure for an astonishingly long time, and his ability to still function blew you away. You did not know his whole story, but you wanted to ensure that he could get the happy ending he wanted.

Silently you poured the fragrant seaweed soup that you made, trying to follow a variation created by a cook from South Gyeongsang province, and set the bowl in front of him. You sat down across from the birthday boy. When he failed to move, you nudged his elbow with a plate of danmuji you had bought. When he finally looked up at you, eyes watery and red, you mustered your brightest grin and whispered:

“Don’t over-salt the food, Seonghwa, I want you to try it as is.” Hearing his chuckle was music to your ears. You reached over to pass him his cutlery, and before moving away, softly squeezed his forearm in reassurance. The gesture was meant to be brief and non-invasive, but Seonghwa had other plans and wrapped his fingers around your forearm, letting time stand still. He was aware that you were in a relationship with some good-for-nothing, so did not overstep any boundaries (though his body was screaming at him to act), but the touch had triggered a shutdown of his rumination. Right there and then, he was home.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He released you, only to pick up the spoon you provided and dig into the soup.

“You are very welcome, Seonghwa. Happy birthday.”

Not long after that, about a year and a half of you knowing one another, your neighbour turned closest friend had comforted you through loss of love; something you had initially attempted to hide, seeing as the loss Seonghwa had to witness day in day out was gut-wrenching on a different level, but he wanted to hear none of it. That same moment that he had managed to pry out of you the reason for your melancholy, he called into work claiming an emergency day off. He had stormed into your apartment with a mission to make you smile at least once, or at least to make you feel lighter – he did not have to try too hard, you had to admit. Part of you was certain that it was exactly because you had Seonghwa you could walk out of your ex-boyfriend’s apartment with a smile on your face.

The waves of bitter regret had hit you only after you came home. Replaying every scene in your head, you never thought yourself to be the one who would, one, be able to put up with someone, in retrospect, so judgemental for a total of three years, and two, be the one who was cheated on and then cussed out. The magical world of the new apartment complex you lived was shuddering under the heaviness of your dark mood.

The few weeks before Seonghwa had fully committed to treatment had passed agonisingly slow, with you hurling your phone across the living room in an attempt to silence the spam from your ex and existing on mere inertia. Getting up because you had to. Breathing out of habit. You had been struggling to keep your focus during meetings and had notified your team that you were to be exclusively online for the next couple of weeks due to being under the weather. By grace, your boss was more than understanding. And that was when you stopped being bothered to draw your curtains or to take care of yourself. Your ecosystem rapidly decreased in size until it was mashed into your apartment. Seonghwa was the one to see the signs. You were convinced that it was because he was a doctor and thus had a sixth sense, but he did not dare explain why he was acting the way he was. At least it was not the right time.

You healed fast. And got back into the pleasant lifestyle of amiable banter and housekeeping with Seonghwa. However, a few things had definitely changed since overcoming the various plot twists life had thrown at you. Probably one of the most obvious ones was that neither of you were hesitant to share stories about one another to your respective circles. Moreover, both of you would chat away even when unprompted, which had earned you a few sighs already. To express gratitude and satisfy your curiosity for where Seonghwa worked, you surprised him by bringing him a boxed lunch he had been raving about. This had set off a couple of rumours about you, though they were dispelled very quickly by your neighbour’s squadron of ambitious, wild, and hilarious doctors. They were quick to state that you had ‘old married couple energy’ and were asking if you could adopt them so they could get good treatment too. While you were laughing, you failed to notice the proud and warm grin that danced on Seonghwa’s lips and made his dark eyes gleam.

This was your shared rhythm. Your shared feeling of home.

☼☼☼☼☼

“Hey, do you need me to pick anything up on the way home?” your neighbour asked, his voice turning static for a split second as you switched the call to speaker.

You were currently hidden away in your home office – a tiny closet of a bedroom that you had converted to something of a studio for your creative deeds. So far, it was simply a desk and chair facing the window, a shelving unit housing random prototyping and art materials as well as being a pedestal to a potted English ivy to your right, and an overfilled corkboard to your left. As Seonghwa had commented, it was a manifestation of your creative and professional self. Truer words could not be said – it explained why you were constantly thinking of ways to update the interior.

As you repeatedly dragged and clicked with your mouse, scrutinising the vector image you were in the process of designing, you mumbled your resident partner in crime a response:

“I think I am good for now…”

“Really? So, we are just going to brush over the fact that you ran out of onions last week?”

You chuckled. The name under which you had him saved, ‘Mother Hwa🖤’ was very appropriate right that second. Nevertheless, these were the moments when you felt the most at ease. There was someone taking care of you, even though you were away from your childhood home, away from your old friends. There was someone right beside you, who you knew would return any care and affection a thousand-fold.

“See? You somehow know the contents of my kitchen better than I do. Please bestow some more knowledge upon me, dear Mars bar.” You countered, not looking away from your screen to pretend like you were still concentrated on work and not a soft mushy mess.

“Well… there was that one seasoning you had… you know the one in the red packet with the TV show host guy randomly in the corner and-” you tilted your head at the sudden pause “…since when am I a Mars bar???” you had to purse and suck in your lips to prevent a loud giggle from spilling out.

“Because you are a snack, Seonghwa.” Your success at a deadpan delivery sent the man on the call into a state of ‘error.exe’, even though the joke was outdated and highlighted how both of you were not quite the peak of modernity among the youth.

Before you had attained the status of singlehood, you were a lot more reserved with your jokes and flirtation, and understandably so. You had not wanted to appear to be a player, not give anyone false hopes. Seonghwa had to admit that it had been slightly easier to talk to you when he felt as though he had no chance. Now, more often than not, your comments reduced him to nothing more than a pained expression and flaming cheeks. Believing that there could be something, a tomorrow, hell, a whole future with you, really sent him into a mental frenzy.

“…okay… then I won’t get you the bbungyeoppang that is on sale since I am enough.” He whispered. Nothing much, but a shiver still ran down your spine at the sudden sultriness in his enunciation.

“Why not spice things up and add a plus one, especially since they are so willing?” you countered, mirroring him.

“Oh you- ah sorry, I have to drop the call, duty calls. Hongjoong is asking for a consult. Then I’ll pick up the groceries on the way, see you later Y/N.” Seonghwa rushed, jolting you back to reality. That’s right, you were still in your tiny room, in front of your set up, hand hovering above the mouse.

“Sure, got you. See you later, Seonghwa!”

As soon as you ended the call and watched the phone screen fade to black, you spun around on your chair, doing a miniature wiggle dance. These domestic interactions had never failed to give rise to pure glee within you. It was a tad unconventional to be pretty much sharing living space with someone who, technically, was just your neighbour, but it felt more than right. Oh, the wonders of having powered through life struggles and global crises together.

While you continued to work away at a brand re-design portfolio deck, Seonghwa was left standing in one of the many passageways of KQ Hospital where he worked. This particular one was almost fully glass, connecting the emergency centre to the main building. Whenever he felt like shooting you a quick text or to slow down after doing rounds and more training, Seonghwa would come here. To some degree, the location reminded him of the apartment complex – people bolting across, on a mission, never stopping to admire the setting sun that the glass captured, turning the linoleum floor into a carpet of glistening gold. People greeting each other with a curt nod, posing as good colleagues when in fact they had no idea what the other’s name was, nor why they felt obligated to follow societal norms and not ignore one another. Seonghwa, too, was guilty of this, especially in his first rotations when everything was a huge blur.

At one point he had even ceased to reach out to his friends – those in the exact same rotation and doing the same shifts as him, let alone those with whom, on top of exhaustion, there were other excuses. Funnily enough, it was you who pulled him out of this pattern, preventing him from losing himself and who he held dear. You reminded him that even in this vast world where one can never quite know anyone’s full story, you can find those whom you wouldn’t mind co-authoring with. One of these people was Hongjoong, his best friend since the first year of medical school and colleague he could count on. The shorter man was standing at the entrance to the passageway, arms crossed, his mobile phone dangling between two fingers.

“No wonder I couldn’t call you, Hwa. You were flirting with Y/N again.”

“Come on, man, I wasn’t flirting.” Seonghwa waved his friend off, hiding his phone in his scrubs.

“Then what was it, digital first base?”

Seonghwa could imagine the mischievous expression on Hongjoong’s face, one not dissimilar to that of a dad figuring out that his son was talking to someone in a very happy tone. Sighing deeply, he chose to not look to his side and continue walking, hands in his pockets. Seeing that the joke did not quite land, Hongjoong backtracked and added:

“If it is going to make you actually respond to me, I can start paging you, I don’t mind. I have gotten pretty good at dialling up the numbers at lighting speed.” This made Seonghwa shudder and turn dramatically.

“Oh, you would not dare, Kim Hongjoong, I am still getting flashbacks from the time the senior resident just decided to give me three pagers on a Friday night shift.” He proclaimed, placing a hand on his chest.

“You’ll deal with it, better train those nerves up for when you become a neurosurgeon.” Hongjoong poked him in the arm, then fell into the same stride as his friend.

That was how it had been through out the years they had known each other. Through thick and thin, on caffeine or suffering through withdrawals. They had sworn to support one another through the thorned path that was medicine, and somehow had managed to deal with each other’s nonsense. At this point they could be called brothers, having only moved into different apartments by mutual agreement to not drive each other insane 24/7. Interestingly, their opportunity to spend some time apart, forming their own habitats and lives not directly related to careers and studies, had enabled them to be even better attuned to each other’s changes. This was how Hongjoong knew you were someone who Seonghwa could rely on. In a matter of weeks after ghosting those closest left and right, he had walked into the staff common room with an apologetic smile and coffee for all his friends who he had gathered prior. And, upon being taken aside by Hongjoong for a miniature interrogation, brushed any suspicions and hypotheses aside, only saying that ‘he had found home’.

Needless to say, when the bond between you two began to grow stronger, and you had, evidently, not left his side for the duration of the worst parts of the pandemic, nor did Seonghwa abandon any hopes as he had previously done when it came to even hints of relationships, for Hongjoong you were instantly approved. Bonus points for having returned the next day after bringing Seonghwa lunch that one time to feed his friends too. It was frustrating that his best friend was not yet aware of the necessity to make the final move and make things official. For a doctor he was unbelievably thick in matters of love, or was a classicist and was afraid of rejection.

“You know…” Hongjoong began as they were approaching the elevators, “I think you really need to seal the deal, Hwa. Time goes by fast, and it is unfair to both of you if you don’t neither time nor the feelings you obviously have.”

Seonghwa expected that this conversation would happen at some point. His friend knew him too well. Maybe even caught him looking at your pictures that he had saved on his phone in a separate album of his gallery. He took a deep breath and shrugged, pressing the button to call the lift.

“True, but at the same time, things are going so well right now and-”

“Hate to rain on your parade, buddy, but that is how you messed up with your first girlfriend. And your second… oh wait a minute, even the blind date I set you up on did not work out, guess why?”

“Okay, okay, I got it. Fine.”

“No, you ‘don’t got it’. I can see you are scared. But you know why? Because you are being given a chance by the universe to hold onto something so precious and fragile that you know you cannot be the same without. But your self-doubt and anxieties wake up and torment you, day in day out, saying that you cannot step up and be responsible and commit.”

Seonghwa fell quiet, all attention on the painful monologue that was cutting up his psyche into small pieces, arranging it into a clearer bigger picture that he was trying to hide from himself.

“Take this, if you were not ready to step up, you wouldn’t have her as your emergency contact – don’t ask how I know. And, and you sure as hell would not be rushing home after a day shift just to make it to the bakery she likes. You would not be so worried for her even if everything was okay and you would not drop everything just to help her. You, my friend, are denying what is so blatantly obvious and is right in front of you that I seriously want you to call ophthalmology.”

“I swear, it is almost as if I was the one who called you for a life consult.” Seonghwa retorted as they watched the numbers blink in ascending order.

“See how lucky you are? Doctor Kim is blessing you with love wisdom for free.”

“Yeah… yeah… And I am trying my best to apply it.” If only destiny was so kind so as to give him an opportunity to just… get the awkward stuff over with and be able to wrap you in his arms – he was getting ahead of himself. Again. Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair. Way to go, declaring to another doctor he was ‘self-soothing’. He cleared his throat and decided to fully switch topic.

“Now, oh wise one, what troubles did you wish to talk to me about?”

“Oh, okay, so there is this one patient, complaining of episodes where their surroundings start spinning uncontrollably and they get a splitting headache and waves of nausea-”

“Vertigo?”

“Exactly, care to check it out?”

“Sure, lead the way.”

They ambled onwards, having fully moved on from conversing about you, however Seonghwa was still clouded over, pondering what you were up to. He was meant to have a full day off soon, and his infatuated self was inclined to conjure up plans exclusively involving you. But first, this patient…

You had not moved much in the time of Hongjoong’s and Seonghwa’s chat, nor for the two hours after that. Having found the perfect position in your chair, you were an unstoppable force, bashing out page after page of innovation for a re-branding that a late-stage start-up had requested. Their market focus reminded you of Seonghwa. Neuro-something or other. Maybe you should show him a sneak peek of one of your designs, just to see what the impact would be, though the non-disclosure agreement was hanging right above you like a guillotine. Yet another cause for your having been accustomed to asking well-crafted questions about your neighbour’s day – patient confidentiality was not too far off, style-wise. Like serif and sans serif fonts. Or two font families that could be mish-mashed together and no one would mind.

It was obvious that you had spent far too long doing some ‘font shopping’, as you liked to call it. Another hour, to be exact. However, you pushed the initial wave of guilt away pretty quickly, reminding yourself that, thankfully, this, too was part of your job. You yawned and stretched, taking a look at the time.

“Right, time for a snack!” you exclaimed out loud, and with a huff pushed yourself to your feet.

It was already getting dark outside, and temperatures were dropping in true autumn fashion, so after much deliberation you settled for a decaffeinated latte and a yogurt you found in your fridge. You moved to your sofa and turned on some random drama to play in the background while you zoned out scrolling for inspiration on your phone. After not finding anything too impressive but liking things for the sake of it, you clicked on your own profile to reminisce on the memories you captured. Funny how more and more of them appeared to involve the doctor next door.

After you proudly deleted any traces of your ex from social media, you vowed to be careful about the people you included in photos. So, none actually revealed the identity of be it a shadow or an extra mug or the holder of a ticket, but for you each scene was crystal clear, and replayed with ease. There was the picture Seonghwa had taken during your ‘supposed to be spontaneous but was planned weeks in advance’ getaway to Daejeon – you looking particularly cute while scrutinising an exhibit at the museum of art. There was the snapshot from one of your late-night trips to the convenience store, when you two were snuggled in oversized hoodies, sprawled on plastic chairs. And one of a completed Lego build, completed in three hours, mainly with you observing and searching for any stray piece that had gone flying across your neighbour’s living room.

You were also glad for the time you had to move on. You had a problematic relationship previously, you had to admit, and rushing into anything more would have had you repeating patterns you did not want to remember. Yet now, all you were hoping for was for a new chapter. An evolution of what you had been cultivating. Your instincts were telling you that you and Seonghwa were approaching a sort of crossroads, or a breaking point, and depending on what decisions you two would make, your future could be rewritten, and the world around the apartment complex either bloom or wither.

It was not that complicated a conclusion to reach – your ex had been bothering you incessantly with messages, voicemails and even direct messaging on social media, leading you to block him almost everywhere. He was going through the usual routine of pretending to care for your wellbeing, demanding attention and then on a night when he was probably shitfaced, saying he loved you and then proceeding to call you a whore. Prince charming indeed. You were disgusted that you had ever associated yourself with that sorry excuse for a man.

Tonight was no different. After deciding to post a ‘throwback’ story, he was back. It had been months since you last shared a full conversation, and it appeared that he was more communicative than ever. Was this what the memes you had seen online were talking about, where two people in a breakup often had radically different grief processing schedules? You were tired. You wanted to forget what and who you had moved away from. You wanted to build your new home in peace, and here was a ghost, howling and wishing to haunt you.

[do not answer!!] hey

[do not answer!!!] I know you are seeing this, you have read receipts on

[do not answer!!!] Y/N… come on I just want to talk things through

[do not answer!!!] I don’t think we have ever really had a chance to go over things

[do not answer!!!] you know, understand each other’s perspectives

[do not answer!!!] Y/N! seriously give me a chance I want to just TALK

[do not answer!!!] anyways, I am on my way to your place so… I guess talk soon?

[aaronjlevy]

Aaron Jacob Levy (Introduction)

(still a work-in-progress)

details

full name: Aaron Jacob Levy

age: 38 years old 

date of birth: February 16, 1986

place of birth: New York, New York

residential area: Downtown, Starlight Oaks, Washington State 

gender: Cis-Male 

pronouns: He/Him

sexuality: Bisexual

martial status: Single

occupation: Theatre Professor, Actor 

faceclaim: Andrew Garfield

personality

personality type: ENFJ | the protagonist 

moral alignment:  chaotic good 

astrology: Aquarius Sun, Taurus Moon, Cancer Rising 

three positive traits: charming, quick-witted, kind

three negative traits: fickle, moody, neurotic

education: Bachelor of Fine Arts in Theatre, NYU | Masters in Fine Arts in Acting, Brown/Trinity REP

background

tw: death, grief, loss, cheating, cancer

It was a brilliantly sunny day when Aaron was born, which was not normal for February in New York City. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. The Lower East Side was his playground, and Aaron grew up living a happy life. His parents had been high school sweethearts growing up in Philadelphia, and they instilled in him, at a very young age, that love was indeed all you needed. Though they didn’t live in excess, his mother was a middle school choir teacher, and his father was a high school librarian; they had all that they needed. When he was five, they gave Aaron a baby sister, Talia, his best friend in the world. 

It was many years of bliss—years filled with dirt-cheap movies, Hanukkah celebrations, record stores, and homemade matzoh ball soup. Years of discovering Shakespeare and pop music and discovering that maybe Aaron liked boys as much as he liked girls. Years of music, laughter, and joy filled the Levy household. Aaron wanted for nothing back then. He thinks back on this time in his life with bittersweet fondness, knowing he was lucky to grow up in a place that felt so warm. 

When he was 18, he moved a few blocks north and attended NYU for his BFA in Theatre. He had found theatre in high school without much pushback from his parents. Yes, of course, it was a risky career path. But he had a spark, this big burning flare of talent and passion, and his parents didn’t want to snuff it out. Aaron had to work two jobs, alternating between working at a cinema and a bar, to afford anything, but he was happy, and that was enough.

It wasn’t until his senior year of college when his father got sick. Cancer caught him quickly and gave him little time. Aaron was devastated, trying to be home as much as he could. It was setting up for his Senior Showcase, but he didn’t have it in him to push through the pain and try as hard as he might have under better circumstances. He needed to be there for his mother and Talia. He spent much of the time that he was supposed to be in rehearsals, visiting his father in the hospital. It all went so fast, and suddenly, the wonderful Levys were now a family of three.

He managed to graduate, thankfully. Aaron was despondent, but he had maintained his grades and relatively good standing with the university, so he got out on time. He didn’t do particularly well in his Showcase, however, so he was not matched with an agent and manager like most of his classmates. It took him three years of hustling and grinding to make his way up on his own. Skimping on meals and working until he was numb and delirious. But it was also distracting, and carrying the grief he still held; he was grateful for any distractions.

And then, one fine day, right after his 25th birthday, Aaron was unbelievably lucky. Or at least, that’s what he says. He was in the elevator with the right casting agent, just making small talk, and landed an audition for Shakespeare in the Park’s summer production of A Winter’s Tale. He landed the part of Florizel, and from there, the parts just kept on coming. Over the next few years, he became a bona fide Broadway mainstay, hopping between contemporary and classical works effortlessly. He even had a brief stint as Fiyero in Wicked, which… scarred him for life. He would never do a musical again. He had bit roles in long-running New York City TV shows, like Law & Order SVU, and he felt calm. Like the hard work paid off, and he was making his dad proud. 

It was early into these years that he met Travis Walker, a Broadway investor. Travis was older, not by a huge amount, but by enough. Over the years, Aaron had his fair share of flings; men and women were constant but fleeting, and he didn’t place too much stock into forming long-lasting relationships. He was married to his work, and though he was taught that love was so important, he found love in other things: his friends, and his plays and his drive to create art that mattered. But he met Travis on the opening night of one of his plays, and things moved quickly.

He fell, and he fell hard. Aaron was besotted. This was what he had been waiting for, at least he thought. It was perfect: every time he looked at Travis, he could swear he heard choirs singing like angels were in his ears. This was the love his parents had gone on and on about… it had to be. He felt infatuated and believed that he was adored in return. Travis would buy him trinkets and take him on lavish dates and make space for him in his penthouse on Fifth Avenue… this was the dream. 

But soon, that dream was five years long. And Aaron was at the peak of his career, having just given a star turn as Hamlet. He thought he felt the proposal coming on… it had been years, and he had been so patient and attentive, even when Travis had his moods. Even when Travis started to travel much more. Even when things felt lonely. He was supposed to be at the theatre one night for a post-show celebration, but he decided to head out early for the evening, wanting to spend the evening with his partner. When he got home, he discovered a waking nightmare: Travis and a chorus boy. He methodically packed up, absolutely crushed by Travis’ cold and cruel nonchalance at what had transpired. He didn’t even care that it was ending… and then it was done.

Aaron needed to leave the city… he needed to get out. He moved most of his things, which weren’t too much, into a storage unit, grabbed a large backpack, and left. Took a flight to Europe and backpacked. Spent some time roaming around Asia. Came back to the States and got off and on Greyhound buses until he was fully wiped. It was almost two years of this. He needed to shake it out of his system and get the grief and the loss out of him. It was then, at age 32, that he decided he would go back and get his Masters.

Getting into Brown’s program was easy. He was a celebrated actor and though the shock of him being in class with his cohort was a bit much, at first, he settled in nicely. He fell in love with Rhode Island, and 3 years on the coast did him well. He learned so much about himself and what he wanted to do, and what he needed in his life, and he wouldn’t have traded that time for the whole world. When he got out, he was still disillusioned with New York, so he looked for jobs elsewhere. 

That’s how he landed on Starlight Oaks. He’d had a friend in his cohort who had spent some time in the area, and when he saw an open job at the University, his friend recommended it. It was another coastal city, welcoming and waiting for him. He couldn’t wait to see what was in store.

[bamby0304]

Spanner in the Works- Ch.2

Series Masterlist

Summary: Your car breaks down, leaving you stranded in a small town. Waiting for your car to get the all clear, you find yourself getting closer to Sam Winchester, the handsome mechanic working on it. Will he be able to break down your walls? Or is this just a pit stop before you continue to run?

A/N: Check out the scent Sam from @scentsfromthebunker for a next-level fanfic experience!! Thanks to @sculptorofbeginnings for looking the chapter over :)

Warnings: Angst. A bit of fluff.

Bamby

After dropping your car off at the garage, Sam headed back to the small town’s edges. The residential area thinned out, leading to a lot of open field and scattered houses. Soon he pulled into a dirt driveway.

You looked at the small house, noting the cottage feel despite how run down it looked. Parked on the grass was a beautiful and sleek black car, that you surprisingly admired even though you weren’t a car girl. Then your attention was turned to the Ford pick up, that was parked in front of what you’d call a rusty piece of junk.

“Home sweet home.” Sam smiled as he parked the tow in a spot just off the side of the house. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

Following him, you slipped out of the truck as delicately as possible, before walking around to meet him on the other side. He had pulled out the bag you’d grabbed from your car, and was now holding it as he waited for you.

“So, this is where I grew up. It’s a little run down, but it’s home,” he started, walking around the side of the house to the back. “Mum and Dad live up front here.” He gestured to the house. “But Dean and me live around back. That way I don’t wake Mum and Dad up when I wake up early, and Dean doesn’t wake them up when he gets in late.”

“Dean?” you asked with your mousy voice.

He nodded, eyes on the ground as he maneuvered through the patchy grass and dirt. “My big brother.”

Reaching the trailer, Sam pulled out some keys and unlocked the door before gesturing for you to enter. Ducking your head, you stepped in and then to the side as you waited for him to follow. He was right behind you, locking the door and hanging the keys on the hook nearby.

Scanning the area, you were surprised to find it so tidy. Considering two men occupied the place, you were expecting dirty dishes and laundry everywhere. You were expecting pizza boxes and beer bottles, and a funky smell. But, instead, the place was spotless.

“Wow…” You stared in awe.

Chuckling, Sam moved further into the trailer. “Yeah, Dean’s a neat freak.” He nodded as he lead you into the living room. “Okay so, this is a fold out couch. I’m happy to take it if you want an actual bed though. You can take my room, lock the door-”

“The couch is fine, Sam,” you assured him, offering a smile for added measure. “Thank you.”

A smile of his own tugged on his lips. “Well, I’ll set you up. If you want to shower or anything, the bathroom is the first door on the left.”

Mumbling your thanks, you took your bag as he offered it to you, and the scurried off towards the bathroom. The door was closed and locked behind you, giving a sense of privacy and security in this new and strange place.

He might be being hospitable, but you didn’t know him. You didn’t want to know him. All you wanted, and all you needed, was for your car to be fixed so you could hit the road and continue running. Getting close to people never ended well for you…

The shower wasn’t great, but considering you’d been living in your car for weeks it was the best shower you’d ever had. The water stayed warm, and the pressure was consistent for the most part. You’d experienced worse.

Finishing up, you used a towel you found in the cupboard under the sink to dry yourself and your hair off. Then you slipped into some long dark grey pants that hung loose on you these days, and an oversized band-T. Pulling your brush out of your bag, you started to run it through your wet hair as you emerged from the bathroom.

Sam was standing in the kitchen, leaning on the bench as he picked at his fingers. When you stepped out into the hallway he straightened up and turned his lips into a slightly awkward smile.

“I set up the bed. We don’t really have extra pillows, so I grabbed one of mine… hope that was okay?”

Nodding shyly, you headed into the living room to place your bag next to the couch that would be your bed for the night. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He nodded like nothing less should be expected from him. “Um, so there’s blankets in that trunk over there.” He gestured to the large wooden box in the corner of the room. “If it gets too cold, feel free to grab as many as you need. Mum is a bit of a knitter and she’s always sending things this way, even though Dean and I don’t need more blankets,” he chuckled lightly.

You smiled back at him, still feeling awkward but his relaxed demeanor was helping relax you. “I’m going to go to bed now…”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.” He nodded, backing up. “My room is the last door down the hall.”

As he turned to leave you be, you called out to him, “Sam?”

“Hmm?” He turned on his heels to look at you again.

“Thank you. For everything.”

His smile this time was the most genuine and relaxed you’d seen all night. “Good night, Y/N.”

Tucked away under the blankets, you were trying to sleep. You really weren’t surprised that you were still awake, though. Sleeping had never been a skill of yours. Since you were a little girl, after that one night, you’d always feared what lay behind closed eyes. Now you had the added memories from last year, sights and sounds that shook your dreams and always turned them into nightmares.

So you were left flat on your back, staring at the off white ceiling of the stranger’s trailer. You were deep in thought, trying to figure out what might have gone wrong with your car, when you heard movement outside.

You froze, skin tingling with anxiety that kept you frozen in place. The movement got closer, and was soon joined by the sound of keys jostling, followed by the quiet scrape of metal sliding against metal, and then a click as the door was unlocked.

With wide eyes, you bolted upright and clutched the blankets to your chest as the door began to open. When the person stepped into the trailer and turned the light on, they came to a complete stop at the sight of you.

“Um… hi.”

“Hi,” you squeaked back.

Eyes glued on you, he called over his shoulder, “Sammy!”

A few seconds passed before a door further in the trailer opened, and then Sam emerged, rubbing at his eyes. “What?”

Ignoring Sam’s tone, the new man pointed at you. “There’s a girl in the living room.”

“I know.” Sam rolled his eyes. “This is Y/N. Her car broke down a few miles out of town. I had to pick her up.”

“And you didn’t think to send her to the motel? Garth has space.”

“It’s was too late. Place was closed.”

“Ellen always has a room at the back of the bar,” the new guy countered.

Sam scoffed, “You think I’m gonna send her to a bar in the middle of the night? She knows no one, and she was nervous enough with me.”

“So, what? You thought you’d just loan our couch out?”

You cleared your throat, shifting on the spot. “I didn’t mean to intrude…”

“You’re not,” Sam assured you. “Dean’s just being a dick.”

“Dean…” You looked from Sam to the other man, taking in his appearance.

The resemblance was clear now. You could see it in the line of their jaw and the shape of their noses. There was a similar ruggedness about the two young men.

“He’s your brother,” you noted, turning back to Sam.

He nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Dean beat him to it. “You just called me a dick.” He punched Sam in the arm.

“I call it how I see it.” Sam punched him back. “She’s not hurting anyone, but if you don’t drop the subject I’ll hurt you,” he warned.

Dean grumbled something under his breath as he nodded. “Fine. But she better not touch my Cookie Crisps.” With one more quick glance at you, Dean then shuffled off down the hall.

Sighing, Sam watched his brother leave before turning to you. “Sorry about him.”

“Sam… I don’t want to cause any problems.”

“You’re not. It’s okay. Just… try to get back to sleep. I’ll take you to the garage later. We’ll figure out what’s wrong with your car, and then we’ll see where we have to go from there.” The smile that tugged on his lips was tired and slightly forced. “Just sleep, Y/N. Don’t worry.”

He turned and retreated back to his room, running his fingers through his hair as he did. You watched him, sitting upright until you heard the sound of his door closing. Now alone once more, you laid back down and got back to staring at the ceiling.

Bamby

[routex63-blog]

Madison County

Route 63 is set in Madison County, North Carolina. It is nestled in the Appalachian Mountains and revolves around five communities: Stackhouse, Shelton Laurel, Riverside, Hot Springs, and Wolf Laurel. The weather is currently in the bloom of summer. The days are hot and dry ranging between 80 to 95 degrees fahrenheit with scattered showers popping up in the evening hours that helps raise the humidity. The nights and early mornings range from 55 to 70 degrees fahrenheit.

The communities are broken down quite decisively, Shelton Laurel being the most rural community having a larger basis of farms and agricultural driven industry. Riverside holds the bulk of the county business and commerce with all the county offices short of the university and the high school and is the "downtown" of Madison County. Wolf Laurel is a more upscale, wealthier community that prides it's exclusive behavior. Stackhouse is the oldest and original part of the county, being the first established community in Madison County. It's more residential than anything now, but it still holds a small appeal. Finally, Hot Springs is a mixture of lower income housing, lower end businesses, and of course, a lot of outdoor areas.

The calendar month is October and the year is 2019.

COOL FACTS

Madison County was founded in 1851 from parts of Buncombe and Yancey county, the two largest counties at the time. It was historically founded by a select group of people whose family names became known as the founding families of Madison and some still live in the county to this day. The county, particularly the more rural towns are firm believers in tradition and history and work hard to honor the ancestors that came before them and pay back the hard work that was put into the land. Madison is also known as the “jewel of the blue ridge”, one of the top tomato producers in the state, and was one of the top tobacco producers before the tobacco buyout in the early 2000’s. The nearest "cities" are Asheville, NC and Johnson City, TN that have malls, clubs, and expansive shopping.

Madison County has been the majority of a Republican state since it’s conception in 1851 being a big political machine in the Western North Carolina mountains. Only as recently as 2008 has the political makeup began to change. Now it boasts a more liberal genetic makeup since the millennials have come into their own. Barack Obama was 200 votes shy of carrying the county as a democratic county in 2008, the closest margin the county could remember to going liberal than conservative. They are a self governed county that is controlled by the five member county commissioner board in concert with the town aldermen and mayors. Old money controls the purse strings and usually it’s old money that gets into elected offices.

DEMOGRAPHICS

The county population fluxuates and according to the 2010 census the current population hovers at around 21,000 but that’s including a lot of people who reside there in the summer or winter months with a part-time status. The full-time people that live there year round number about 11,000. The makeup of the people in Madison are quite varied in race, sexualitiy, religious beliefs, educational backgrounds, monetary incomes, and well the dominant age group is 50+ in the mountain county.

NOTABLE PLACES

Stackhouse Bed & Breakfast

is the ancient Victorian style house that was the family home for the Stackhouse family for years. The twelve bedroom house serves as a bed & breakfast in the Stackhouse Valley for tourists and campers so they get a taste of southern hospitality and get to experience the deep history that comes with the house. Owned and operated by Ida Stackhouse, the home was converted into a bed & breakfast in 2013 after the death of Ida's husband.

The Town of Runion

is the old logging town that was abandoned at the turn of the 20th century and is like it’s own unique ghost town. It’s a favored spot for camping and late night parties, but in the daylight you can see the skeletons of the old town and how busy it was back then.

Paint Rock

is the large rock cliff borders the river and gives some unique views from the top. The base has a lot of graffiti and cravings decorating the rock face and is a hot spot for sunning and swimming. It’s a great vantage spot for selfies and sunset pictures.

Hot Springs

was formerly known as Warm Springs, renamed Hot Springs for the Hot Springs spa and while its a smaller, less financial savvy town it’s well known for the mineral filled hot springs that the spa sits on top of. It’s a very free spirited town that welcomes people from all backgrounds and walks of life and thrives off of the differences of personalities that reside in the town.

GEOGRAPHY

Madison County is roughly 451 square miles and contains a myriad of geographical obstacles. It has the French Broad river that runs north through the western part of the county and is bordered by thousands of acres of dense, sparsely populated forest land. The terrain is rugged from low lying hills and valleys to tall worn mountains that dominate the North Western part of the county at the Tennessee state line.

EDUCATION

The county houses one high school located in the area of the county seat, Riverside, a middle school, and three elementary schools that are located respectively in each portion of the county and they’re ranked in the top twenty percent of the state. It boasts one bragging right in the form of Stackhouse University, formerly a private agriculture school, but now considered public and coed, it offers three degree types (bachelor of arts, bachelor of science, master of science) with a larger variety of majors. It’s the oldest university in Western North Carolina and is ranked in the top ten percent of the state.

ANNUAL TRADITIONS

IN MADISON COUNTY

There are several annual traditions that are held in Madison, planned and orchestrated by the founder’s board, the board made up of the remaining founding families in the county. They work hard and tirelessly to keep everything planned and running smoothly through the year because in a small town who doesn’t look forward to the annual events?

The Founders Gala

is a celebration that involves the founding of Madison County and celebrates and honors the founding families of each community. It’s a week of events that range from small street carts in downtown to movie showings in hayfields and school related events at the high school. It’s all wrapped up with a huge gala usually hosted by one of the Stackhouse or Brigman family members at the Stackhouse bed & breakfast in Stackhouse valley. It’s a great way to welcome in the ides of March and witness the spring rains that follow.

The Tulip Celebration

is a festival that highlights one of the many agricultural related traits of the county. The tulip Celebration is linked to the tulip craze that swept Europe and Asia in the 1600’s and made its way across the big blue to the Americas when the colonists arrived. Madison County is well known for their spectacular Tulip blooms in the early spring right on the heels of the last winter snow. The whole county transforms as the tulips emerge and you witness carnivals, outdoor cooking, judging contests, and some good ol’ times with your friends and family.

The Apple Harvest

is the highlight of the fall season and draws many tourists and locals alike into the folds of Madison. They enjoy the entertainment and live music, the caramel apples, the carnivals, and the celebration of another bountiful harvest. It’s a time for reflection and planning for the future and there is always the fabled apple wishing ceremony that the towns take part in. There’s nothing like making a wish on a halved apple and watching the river carry it away.

The Annual Tree Lighting

is a Christmastide celebration that has always been a big season of revels in the Appalachian mountains and in Madison it’s no real surprise that the entire county turns out to celebrate such a merry time together. There is always a towering tree displayed in front of the courthouse in Riverside and it’s one of the keynote events of the Christmastime to light the tree, then downtown converts into a Christmas village and there is ice skating and sledding in Wolf Laurel. Everyone comes together for a good time in Christmastime and everyone always makes fascinating memories to share.

[vgopalakrishnan]

Chennai’s curse called Cooum

For the Chennaites, the word Cooum has become synonymous with dirt, stink, unclean, garbage and what not. For several generations, Cooum river has been an eyesore for the chennaites like myself, who have grown up witnessing the ugly side of its sad and tragic history. Once upon a time, at least till some 70 years back, Cooum has been a Jeeva Nadhi or lively river throughout its full course till it reaches the Bay of Bengal near the Napier's bridge. In fact, the emergence of Madras as a trade centre under the British East India Company was primarily due to this river's existence. Britishers used Cooum river as a strategic point for their military purposes. They felt comfortable and safe to set up their base in Fort St George owing to this river's flow, which acted as a barrier for the invading enemy troops from the south of Madras. Much of the British era development projects like Madras medical college, railway station, general hospital and several others were built around the Cooum river.

Britishers even thought of establishing a port at the mouth of Cooum river near Fort St George to expand their trade and commerce. The river begins its journey some 72 KMs from Chennai and gets its name from the place bearing the name Cooum, a temple village and its surrounding belt. Civilizations have always begun on the river beds and Cooum is not an exception. There are four important Shiva temples along the course of the river Cooum which runs half of its course in the suburbs and heart of Chennai eventually merging with the bay.

The decaying of river Cooum began in the middle of the last Century when reckless development and mind boggling migration started gripping the then Madras. With the sprouting of residential areas along the banks of Cooum, it became the dumping place of garbage and sewage from the residential and industrial zones. In about 20-30 years after Independence, the river got completely turned into a toxic river losing all its sanctity and utility. It has been a major waterway for Madras through which several goods were transported to and from Madras during the olden days. 

Britishers effectively used Cooum river not only to fortify their presence, but also to boost the trade and commerce by linking Cooum and Adyar rivers through a canal, which is now called as Buckingham canal running through the prime areas of Triplicane, Mylapore, Mandaveli and joining Adyar river at Kotturpuram. (Earlier residents of Mylapore, Mandaveli would have heard about a veggie market called Thanneer thurai market on Royapettah high road which was dependent on this canal for the arrival of vegetables from nearby villages. That market no longer exists and given way to a residential complex after litigation).

Reckless and mindless development of Chennai has taken its toll on this beautiful, natural river by turning into a massive garbage dump. Cooum was a delightful river for the marine species and at one point had more than 50 species of fish varieties. Needless to say about the migrant birds which found sanctuary along the Cooum river during the good old days. It's our sheer negligence which has killed the river Cooum and nothing much happened for its revival, though time and again the revival plan has been discussed. 

Reviving the river will safeguard the City during the times of disasters and also be a carrier of fresh water at all points. In normal times, the river will ease the road traffic & pollution and also help the small traders and farmers to transport the goods in an efficient way. Tourism will also get a huge boost if it is revived. Unfortunately none of the stakeholders, be it citizens, civic body and the government are bothered much about its revival. It is high time we realize the importance of reviving this once beautiful river called Cooum and make it part of Chennai’s pride eco-system!

[gauribastian]

4 Considerations To Make Before Finalizing Location For Dental Practice

We’ve compiled a list of some important criteria that a good dental clinic location should have. We understand that there won't be many locations that scores well on all the parameters; so you should try to weigh in all the factors before taking a decision.

Which is best dental course in india after BDS visit our dental portal DentistFriend to know.

1. Location

Visibility & Accessibility

The clinic should be easily visible to passers-by so that they can remember it when they are in need of a dentist. A space with best visibility might cost you a little extra, but you can take it as your long term investment in marketing of clinic. Also, ensure that the space comes with ample provision for displaying required signage.

Your clinic should be very accessible with multiple transport options from across the city. It would be ideal to have a practice in the center of the city as long as it meets the remaining criteria. If you could get a location that needs as minimum time as possible to commute then nothing like it; as it will save your as well as the patient's time.

Neighborhood & Locale

A clinic is expected to be an absolutely clean place which stands for hygiene and good health. Adjacent and nearby shops, offices and hospitals play a very important role in building an early impression. Having hospitals in the immediate vicinity not only increases the number of referrals but also attracts patients who are looking for an expert opinion.

It is crucial to setup your clinic in an area that has a decent reputation among your target patients. Setting up a clinic in a substandard area could get your patients disinterested while setting up a clinic in a way too opulent location could keep your customers away thinking your services are too costly. You can use your consultation fees as a reference to help you determine the right area for your practice.

2. Demographics

Check for the Average Income, Age & Population of your demographics and make sure there is no shortage of the right audience in your area. The average household income of the population in the neighborhood will serve as a benchmark for you to decide your consultation fees. In case you are looking for a class practice then make sure that you set clinic in an upscale locality so that the patients could afford it. Based on your expertise make sure that your practice is situated between the right age group. For example, it would be a good idea to set up a pedo practice in a residential location instead of an industrial location.

Try to study & understand whether the population in that particular area has decreased or increased and if its composition is likely to change. It would be a clever move in the long run to set up a clinic in a location that has rapid growth potential.

3. Competition

Too many dentists in the vicinity with the same specialization can hamper your practice as the patients in the neighborhood have multiple options. Also, setting up a practice in the middle of established clinicians could mean that you have to put more time and efforts in order to create your own identity.

A healthy competition might help you to grow with competitive advantage, however you should take the decisions wisely..

4. Infrastructure

Exterior & Interior

The external appearance is one of the first things that gets noticed and makes an early impression which is followed by the interior. So make sure that the building looks descent externally and also you have enough space for waiting room, operatory and good ventilation.

We would advise to go for a relatively larger sized place than your current requirement. It will help you when your practice picks up and you want to accommodate one more dental chair, the extra space will come in handy or else you would have to do same exercise few years down the line.

Facilities

If your clinic is going to be in a popular location then make sure it has ample parking for visitors; inadequate parking space can turn off patients especially who drive a car. There won't be a need of an elevator for a clinic at ground floor, but otherwise there should be the facility or else you might lose out some geriatric prostho patients. It is very important to have a clean washroom for your patients; this will also be useful for patients who might constantly need a washroom.

It is very likely that you might not find a place that scores well on all of the above parameters,

but make sure that you compromise wisely...

Cover Image Courtesy: Google Images

Source : DentistFriend

[withastolenlantern]

Yokota closed the holo display on his mobile and took out his earbuds. The Yamanote line was not as crowded as he’d expected, although he’d left the hospital earlier than usual, perhaps beating the main saruriman rush from the office to the bar. He’d been able to find a seat with ease; directly across the car sat three young girls, perhaps twelve or thirteen, likely on their way to cram school. They were huddled around a single holo display, giggling and chattering on, oblivious to the greater world outside their  J-Pop reverie.

Chiyoko would be that age, soon enough, and if she were anything like her mother she’d grow from a shy, smart girl to an awkward but independent young woman. Misato had been an easy child, he recalled wistfully; her only real rebellion had been her choice of fashion, spending far too many hours and yen in the Harajuku boutiques and cosplaying her outfits in Yoyogi Park. But she’d graduated top of her class, and then she’d met Kenji in university, and what little revolutionary spirit she had became flattened out in the same way that family responsibilities trims the sharp edges from all adults. That had been many years ago, though, and the world was now changing at a frightening pace. He only hoped he’d done enough to guarantee his grandchild a future in which flourish.

The drugs he’d purchased the previous evening were locked in the research freezer in their laboratory. It was a beautiful fall Friday, and Midori had been on-call, so they figured that the sample would keep through the weekend. It was Chiyoko’s birthday Sunday, and Yokota had swung through the ubiquitous toy and holo shops that still lined the streets of Electric Town in Akihabara. He purchased several mini-figurines from the girls’ softball anime holo Yakyu Boken Shimu his grand-daughter had been obsessed with; he couldn’t name any of the characters, and sports fandom was more Midori’s hobby, so he’d asked the clerk at the shop which were the most popular and hoped for the best. He’d tossed them in his briefcase and boarded the train to ride the loop around central Tokyo to Misato’s apartment in Ebisu.

The girls across from him gasped playfully at something in their feed, and then blushed in contrition as they realized they’d drawn the attention of the entire car. Yokota smiled at them warmly as they tittered to one another with hands covering their faces. He felt alive, riding the train, in a way that made more sense to him than perhaps he could explain. The hospital was a strange environment, being both solmen and joyous simultaneously; a place of death but also birth, of the sadness of a cancer diagnosis juxtaposed against the exuberance of a successful trauma surgery. But here, circling the center of one of man’s truly great cities, the doctor felt at peace in the banal normality. The cloth signs of shops and markets and cafes blew gently in the breeze as the train sped through the metropolis, and the city was abuzz with the sounds of the living. One day it would be gone; he would be gone, called to meet the kami and his beloved Tomoko. He felt the pangs of her loss dearly, threatening to overwhelm him, but he comforted himself with the thought that she lived on in the bright smile of his cherished granddaughter, whom he would see shortly.

The train pulled into the Ebisu station and he exited, following the long corridor from the platform into the bustle of the busy city streets below. It was late afternoon now, and the sun began to set behind the tall buildings of Shibuya to the northwest. He walked the several blocks from the station to Misato’s apartment; Kenji had done well, having been recently promoted to middle-management in one of the larger electronics concerns, and their home belied his status. Yokota did not see his son-in-law often, as his job kept him in the office for long hours followed by the requisite team dinners and social activities. He still respected the man, though, as Kenji took seriously both roles of primary breadwinner and secondary parent. The same could not be said of many of Yokota’s contemporaries and colleagues.

The doctor reached his daughter’s building and ascended the six flights of stairs to the upper residential area. The lower floors housed a noodle shop and hair salon, although Misato had cautioned him against patronizing either. She’d made the mistake of taking Chiyoko to have her hair cut once and the resultant style had taken months to grow back in correctly; the noodles she’d said were fine, but dry, and not worth even the convenience. He stood outside the apartment unit and composed himself, slicking down anyway wayward hairs and dabbing the sweat from his brow.

WIthin three seconds of ringing the bell his grand-daughter threw open the door and nearly tackled him to the ground as she collided with his waist. “Ojii-san!” she squealed with delight. “You came!”

“Of course, koinu,” he replied, using the nickname she’d earned for love for Akitas. She was allergic, and couldn’t have her own, but she still coveted them from afar and collected anything she could that featured them. “I would not miss your birthday for the world.” The child beamed up at him from his waist, refusing to budge as he tried to make his way into the apartment. She clung to his leg, coming along for the ride as he lumbered through the threshold.

“Chiyoko honey, let grandpa at least put his things down before you start climbing all over him,” Yokota’s daughter said, prying the girl from him. “Hi dad,” she said, reaching for his briefcase while she kissed him on the cheek.

“Hang on there, I heard it’s someone’s birthday,” he hinted, removing his granddaughter’s presents before allowing Misato to place it into the closet next to Kenji’s nearly exact copy.

“You know it’s me,” Chiyoko said, rolling her eyes with faux disdain.

“What smells good?” Yokota asked, dramatically ignoring the girl and slipping out of his shoes.

“Karaage,” she said. “Nothing fancy, but it’s her favorite. You want a beer or something?”

“Sure,” he replied, following her into the kitchen. Kenji was sitting on the couch, watching television, while Chiyoko played on the floor. He nodded slightly to his son-in-law as he passed, who waved half-heartedly in reply.

Misato pulled a cold Suntory Premium from the fridge and cracked it open, taking a quick swig for herself before handing it to him. He too took a drink, the beer cool and refreshing. “Everything okay at the hospital?” she asked, stirring a bowl full of pickled vegetables.

“More or less,” he lied, not wishing to burden his daughter with the unsettling situation they’d discovered in the last few days. His excursion the previous evening into Tokyo’s underbelly had shaken him, but it was not something he was ready to discuss with anyone, let alone family. Midori would be his only confident until they had a better understanding of the severity. “Midori-san is a capable doctor. He will make a fine physician one day.”

“That’s good,” Misato answered half-heartedly. She strained the fried chicken from the oil and set it on a plate over a paper towel to collect the excess grease and cool.

“Ojii-san, look!” his grand-daughter called, barreling into the kitchen. She pulled a sheaf of paper from off the refrigerator and handed it to him. “I got an A on my biology test!”

“That’s great koinu,” he responded, pinning the exam back on the fridge. “Do you want to be a doctor like me?”

“No,” she stated as of reciting a fact for her class. “I’m going to play softball until I marry a famous prince, like Ojo Sanruishu,” she teased, laughing with childish abandon.

Misato snorted from across the kitchen. “You and me both, dear.”

“I heard that!” Kenji yelled from the living room.

“Ok princess, wash your hands so we can eat,” Misato chided.

They sat then to eat, and Yokota made a small prayer, hoping his deceased wife was looking down upon them fondly. Misato’s fried chicken and pickles were delicious, a recipe she’d learned from his mother, and was rounded out with steamed rice, with egg custard for dessert. After dinner Chiyoko opened her gifts and shrieked when she unwrapped the figures he’d purchased; apparently the Akiba clerk had chosen well and his granddaughter was enthralled. She played with them immediately, mocking out a simulated game on the kitchen floor while Yokota and his daughter cleared the table and washed the dishes. He helped put the young girl to bed, tucking her in and singing her a short song before the adults retired to the living room.

Kenji snoozed in an armchair, still in his shirt and tie, while the evening news reviewed the day’s sumo highlights. The doctor and his daughter sat on the couch, finishing their beer. “Thanks for coming, I know it means a lot to her,” Misato confided. “I think it helps, you know. Dealing with mom and all.”

Yokota patted his daughter’s hand gently. “I know. It helps me, too.”

Misato stretched and yawned. “Alright, I think I’m going to bed. Stay as long as you want. Maybe give him a nudge before you leave,” she said, pointing toward her dozing husband.

“Ok,” the doctor replied. “I will.”

She left him then, heading back into the bedroom. He sighed to himself, basking in the togetherness of family that served to counterbalance his recent professional excitement. He took one last look at Kenji, still happily snoring in the chair, and stood quietly so as not to wake him. He tiptoed to the door, sliding into his shoes and grabbing his case from the closet.

He stepped outside into the cool, fall air, looking out over the new illuminated neon signs dotting the evening streets. As he descended the stairs, a mobile buzzed from inside his case, which was strange, as his was still in his pocket. He opened the case to find he had grabbed Kenji’s by accident, and his mobile was ringing and flashing, making a strange clinking sound with each chime.

He reached inside to find the mobile, and next to it, a vial of viscous, red fluid.

[architectnews]

Top Places To Buy Properties In Nova Scotia

Top places to buy properties in Nova Scotia, Building Design Tips, Online Advice

Where To Buy Properties In Nova Scotia

23 May 2021

Nova Scotia is one of the hidden gems of Canada. Unlike the capital and the rest of the big metro areas, Nova Scotia doesn’t suffer from nightmarish traffic jams, skyrocketing rent prices, and overall stressful existence associated with big cities. On the contrary — most places in Nova Scotia offer peace, tranquility, and reasonable living expenses. Here are some of the best places to buy property in this part of Canada.

Lunenburg, Nova Scotia

There’s no better candidate to start our list with than the dreamy town of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Designated a UNESCO heritage site, Lunenburg is rich with history that spans all the way back to the 18th century. However, there are other reasons why one would decide to ditch the big city lifestyle for a small township like this one, and it’s not all about history.

What sets Lunenburg apart from other similar places in Nova Scotia is the scenery. Hidden in a gulf right on the coast of the Atlantic, Lunenburg is a picture-perfect town that you’d find in your average Hallmark feel-good flick. Walking down one of Lunenberg’s main streets reveals endless rows of colorful houses that give this place a very special vibe.

With the coast so close to the town center, taking a walk on the beach is never a chore. Property prices in this fairy tale town are more than reasonable considering what you’re getting in return. That being said, Lunenburg isn’t an industrial town. Most work opportunities are related to the hospitality industry, retail and similar. This location is best suited for those who work remotely and aren’t required to be in proximity to their employer. If you’re looking for a quiet little town that has a unique vibe, Lunenburg is a great place to begin your search.

Halifax

Despite being one of the smallest provinces in Canada, Nova Scotia boasts a thriving city of Halifax which is also its capital. Although it’s an urban area, Halifax is a far cry from the fast-paced Toronto or Montreal in terms of big city cred. Yet, Halifax strikes the perfect balance between budding city life and small-town aesthetic.

Unlike other provincial capitals of Canada, Halifax has a population of 400,000 that is steadily growing. It’s not a hot immigration destination like some other places in the country, which means that its inhabitants get to enjoy a less crowded city experience. All that said, Halifax has all the traits of a major city. It’s the cultural center of the entire province, packed with theaters, vibrant art galleries, and museums.

Then there are the numerous restaurants that offer anything from delicious Nova Scotia comfort foods to proper fine dining. The climate of the city is perfect for those who like more consistent weather all throughout the year. There are few extremes in Halifax as far as weather goes.

Properties in Halifax offer a variety of choices. You can find picture-perfect middle-class suburban properties as well as Halifax waterfront homes for sale. The best thing is, both are reasonably priced. Truth be told, Halifax is on the expensive side for the East Coast of Canada, but it has nothing on major metro areas in terms of price. You can still find yourself in a comfortable home in Halifax without overspending.

Employment options in this city are numerous. It’s a place that is alive with manufacturing, service industries, retail, IT, and more. Being the financial hub of the entire province means that Halifax is also a great place to start a business of your own or invest in existing businesses.

Sydney, The Former Capital of Cape Breton Island Colony

Once a thriving industrial city, Sydney has changed a lot over the years. For one, it’s no longer regarded as a city but a community. Residents of Sydney used to be mainly employed by the local steel industry. However, these days the steel is gone, and it has been replaced by tourism. Sydney is no longer known as an industrial center of Nova Scotia.

The steel mills were replaced by a modern port that is now used for local nautical projects as well as tourism. Namely, most of the cruiser ships that sail through these parts of the Atlantic usually stop for a few days in the port of Sydney. The influx of tourists has begun to reverse the rapid emigration and aging of Sydney’s population.

This change of pace is placing Sydney on the map of places in Nova Scotia that are becoming more and more attractive to live in. Properties in and around Sydney are some of the cheapest in the entire province, although many are expecting this to change in the near future. The current demographic landscape is morphing thanks to a local university that is seeing an increasing number of students each year.

What is Sydney like for a living? The newly spiked interest in this part of Nova Scotia has caused a resurgence of culture and business in the entire Cape Breton Island area. Sydney, in particular, has become a hotspot of modern art and theater. In many ways, Sydney is becoming a true university town with all of the perks that come with this change.

Despite an increasing demand for rental properties, Sydney is still very affordable in terms of property prices. You can find 3-4 bedroom houses anywhere from $100,000 to $300,000 depending on location.

The economy of the Cape Breton area is still one of its biggest drawbacks. Sydney and the surrounding area currently stagnating as far as business opportunities go. The good news is that this is changing as well. More and more investors are recognizing the potential this thriving community has, which is attracting capital in key areas. That being said, Sydney is currently best experienced if you have a stable remote job that allows you to work from home.

Chester, Nova Scotia

Chester is the complete opposite of Sydney in just about every way. This scenic town is packed with higher-end properties as it is a known vacation destination for many higher-class Canadians. The weather here is relatively mild, making Chester a great place for those who enjoy the outdoors.

Being a community with several centuries of dynamic history and tradition, Chester offers a number of cultural attractions. It’s a local art hub and a place that cherishes its lore. Those who choose to move to Chester do so for the tight-knit community, an easy-going lifestyle, and smooth infrastructure. This community is the perfect slice of Nova Scotia. So much so that those who visit usually leave already planning a return trip.

As far as properties go, Chester isn’t as cheap as Sydney, but you can still find great properties at a reasonable price. Of course, being a more prestigious destination, Chester is also packed with high-end properties that can turn this Atlantic shore gem into a proper luxury retreat.

The business and economy of Chester are surprisingly diverse for a community of this size. There is a very strong entrepreneurial presence in this area with thriving small businesses and growing industries. If you move to Chester, you can also count on great healthcare in general, good infrastructure, and overall decent municipal organization.

Why Nova Scotia?

Nova Scotia differs from the rest of Canada in more ways than one. While most other provinces have a rapidly rising population that is focusing in and around large metro areas, Nova Scotia takes things slowly. Life here is simpler and devoid of stresses associated with large cities. Nature alone is a good enough reason to move to any of the places we’ve listed above. Even Halifax, a city of its own, is surrounded by incredible nature.

Needless to say, smaller communities and awesome nature mean better air, less air and light pollution, easier going lifestyle, and generally better quality of life. Those who decide to move to Nova Scotia will find lower property prices and much lower rent prices compared to the rest of the country. With the ocean accessible in an hour tops, you can live anywhere in NS and enjoy a stroll along the beach in no time.

The only reason not to move to Nova Scotia is the scarcity of high-paying jobs. If you’re the type who’s looking to build their career, reaching new levels every year, you’re far better off in one of the major cities. That isn’t to say that Nova Scotia is completely devoid of high-paying jobs and industry-leading positions, but they are much rarer.

Is It Worth To Buy Property In Nova Scotia?

The answer is yes. Nova Scotia is predicted to be the next immigration hub in years to come. As prices keep rising in the big cities, it is only a matter of time before people start looking towards the east for cheaper living costs and a healthier lifestyle.

It’s a good idea to already own properties in Nova Scotia when that happens. The current selection of properties is packed with great opportunities in terms of finding a comfortable place to live, but also in terms of investing in your future.

Comments on this Places To Buy Properties In Nova Scotia article are welcome.

Building Articles

Residential Architecture

House Extension Designs

House Designs

Landscape designs

Comments / photos for the Top Places To Buy Properties In Nova Scotia page welcome

The post Top Places To Buy Properties In Nova Scotia appeared first on e-architect.

[one-deranged-son]

(This is Not) The Way of God

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, thoughts of suicide, torture, and a lot of things. Read at your own risk.

Honestly, I don’t really care about the grammar anymore because it’s been months since I write this so whatever.

Original story was posted in Twitter but due to it’s obtuse cleaning policy, some parts are unable to be saved.

John

"Fucking hell."

The Revelator tighten the belt strapped in his thigh even more; pressing the open wound to prevent it from dripping another single drop of blood again. He had lost a lot of them today, yesterday, and the other days. He can't afford that again.

His vision started to get blurry and, god-fucking-dammit, even now he can't help but to curse out loud as he felt himself trembling like mad. He can't even hear the guttural noises in the background as the crowds screeched, screamed, and shouted for their dear life. Yet, the distinct smell of smoke—of burnt blood—of the remaining ashes—were pungent in his nose.

The Revelator pulled his feet close to his chest, biting his inner cheeks as he tried to handle the pain. It was really a suicide plan, to actually ambush his target in an open space when his shot wound hasn't healed just yet, and now he has to bear with another one which, unfortunately, was placed on his vital part of escaping plan.

Standing up hurts like a bitch.

"Motherfucker..."

He should've seen it on the first hand, his plan was somehow lacking of intel and as soon as he executes it, it was already going southward. Now he's stuck like a lost (feral) kitten inside a dark alley, far away from his home, with a burning building just outside his spot, and losing blood.

He's fucked, that's for sure.

John struggled to keep himself awake, but really, it's hard. And without even realizing it, everything turned black.

Motherfucker, indeed.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ian Nashton stepped foot in New York City. 

But he wasn't there on a vacation—far from it, actually.

He was visiting his goddamned baby brother in a hospital.

Rewind to couple of days ago.

The younger Nashton mentioned that he had a convention in New York to attend to. 

All was well until the second night of his stay.

Ever heard of the saying "caught in the wrong place at the wrong time"? That's precisely what happened with Jansen. During the middle of the night, there was an explosion that originated a couple of rooms adjacent to Jansen's. 

That side of the building almost immediately caught fire, and of course, the younger Nashton and many others were injured. But many more lost their lives because they were (somehow) asleep during the fire or they have been rendered unconscious by carbon monoxide. 

Jansen was no stranger to things blowing up. Explosions often happen in his lab; whether done deliberately as a demonstration, or an accident. 

Miraculously, he's never gotten seriously injured from from those explosions, nor have they ever claimed anyone's lives. Perhaps because they tend to be smaller in scale than the hotel explosion. It also helps that Jansen had his lab built some distance away from residential areas.

Jansen's injuries weren't too extreme (compared to some other survivors), there were some minor burns on his limbs, some cuts from splintered wood, a sprained ankle and a broken arm—which he got because he tripped down the emergency stairs.

However, in the eyes of Ian Nashton, it wasn't just the injuries hat got him worried. What got him worried was the attack. More specifically, WHO was behind it.

Without a shadow of a doubt, the detective knew who was behind the attack. It was glaringly obvious. Unfortunately, New York wasn't his area, so he could only leave it to NYPD.

At the very most, he could leave an anonymous tip.

As soon as the news dropped, Ian immediately packed and booked an express ticket to New York—he had dropped Monty by Jeffrey's place because he wasn't exactly sure how long he'd stay in New York. 

Back to the present, now.

The doctor told the brothers that Jansen could leave within two weeks.

"Oi. I'm gonna go out and look for food, okay? Do you want anything?" Ian asked.

"Borax." Jansen said in a groggy tone. Obviously, he was joking. That man sometimes say the stupidest of things. Such irony for a mind so brilliant. Maybe he's gotten a little loopy from his meds.

Ian sighed loudly and grabbed his hat. "What the fuck. I'll get you a burger, then."

Jansen responded with a tired hum. By now, the detective was out of the room already.

Once outside, Ian took out his phone and dialed a number—hoping that the person would pick up immediately.

After a few seconds, the call was picked up. Thank the stars.

"Hello, detective! Did you hear about—"

"—the explosion at Roosevelt Hotel? Yeah. I did. My brother was caught in that damn explosion. It's him, it's glaringly obvious. I'm in New York right now, but I need a favor. Tell me everything you know so far about the attack."

As he walked and talked, Ian had a faint scowl on his face—he was sure agent Moore could hear it through the call.

"Well, our victim is Anton Pavlov. He's a small time politician from Russia—known for his love of gambling and infidelity. Now also known for getting burnt to a crisp." There were some quick rustling of paper on the other side, agent Moore was probably reviewing his notes. "Often frequents the United States on so called business trips, when in actuality, he was taking part in high stakes gambling."

Ian groaned loudly and massaged one side of his temple with his free hand. "As if relations between these two countries weren't bad enough, right? God damn it. He's getting balls-y." 

"I'm sure that thanks to the publicity he's gotten, the Russian government would have known who he is by now. This could mean trouble."

Agent Moore was right. It could. 

"Also. One more thing. A couple of days before this, Jimmy Carter—not the former president, obviously—was murdered and his mansion burnt down. And get this, Carter had similar vices to Pavlov."

"Um… thank you. Listen, I'll call you back later, okay? Keep me updated… if you can." With that, Ian ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket. 

The detective wasn't actually sure where he was headed. He said he wanted to get food, but his main intention was to take some fresh air and talk to the agent. Ian didn't want his younger brother to know because he'd probably worry about Ian instead of himself. 

(To be fair, Ian had only recovered from his own injuries recently)

Now, the detective walked through the streets aimlessly. He was deep in thought, indicated by the frown on his face.

A couple of days back, Jimmy Carter was crucified, and his mansion was burnt down. Then, after that, Anton Pavlov was burnt alive—like Dick Foster—and his hotel room exploded. 

The fact that these attacks occurred within a short time frame made it seem as if the Revelator already had everything planned—as if he had a list. Ian thought that he wouldn't be surprised if by tomorrow, someone else would become deranged Jesus' next victim.

Just his luck.

Ian didn't need to wait until tomorrow—because he heard the faint but familiar sound of sirens. Police, ambulance and firefighters all combined together in that all too familiar cacophony. When the detective looked up, he could see a glow of blue, red, white and orange—as he walked closer, he could hear people screaming and he could smell it. 

Smoke, burnt flesh, ashes—you name it. 

Sure enough, there was a burning building a few blocks away. What building it was, Ian wasn't even sure, the flames had consumed the sign, and Ian wasn't a New Yorker, so he didn't know for sure. If he had to guess, he'd guess that it was an apartment complex.

Even in the midst of all the chaos, the detective's senses were sharp as ever.

He noticed something moving in a dark alleyway. Too big to be an animal. It must be a person. At first, he thought it must have been a homeless person, but as he walked closer, he could hear a faint grunting and… cursing?

Someone's hurt. 

Instinctively, Ian rushed into the alley. He used his phone's flashlight to make it easier for himself to see. "Hello? Are you—"

Oh.

F U C K. 

It's the goddamned Revelator himself. Curled up in a dark alley with some sort of wound on his thigh. Ian nearly dropped his (new) phone, but the detective quickly regained his composure and for a brief moment, he only saw red.

The thought of his younger brother in hospital crossed his mind. His younger brother who had absolutely NOTHING to do with the Revelator was now hurt.

He thought of Sam. How the poor man had to rely on a cane as he recovers from his leg injury, also caused by the Revelator.

He thought of poor Jeffrey. His dominant hand just happened to be the one that got broken. The poor man's productivity was greatly affected because of it.

He thought of Thomas and his family—how they could have lost him that day.

He thought of himself. And what the Revelator has done to him.

Can you blame Ian for wanting revenge?

Ian lowered his hat so it concealed his face, just in case the Revelator wakes up. 

For a brief moment, the detective felt nothing but pure hatred and anger. He considered taking one of the arsonist's weapons and just… end the poor bastard's life then and there. 

It seemed so easy. 

There were no cameras, and there were some bins they could hide behind. NYPD would probably shrug off the case, anyway. The Revelator had been a thorn in their side lately, no?

Actually…

Forget murder and revenge, Ian could even just leave him there to bleed out.

Fortunately, his conscience finally came through.

What he was going to do instead isn't ideal either. But at least (hopefully) the Revelator would still be alive. 

Ian sent his current address to agent Moore's number, along with a text which read:

'I found him. Please send someone here ASAP. He's injured, by the way, so bring a medic along.'

The detective left the dark alley and blended in with some of the bystanders. He only had to wait a measly half an hour before a black sedan parked near the alley. Out came a short man with ginger hair and freckled face. 

That must be agent Lewis. Agent Moore wasn't in New York at that moment, but he said he'd drop by as soon as possible.

Ian watched as the ginger man discreetly walked into and out—with the Revelator—of the alley. The two men were now in that sedan, and before Ian knew it, the car had driven off to who knows where.

Perhaps now would be a good time to get that burger for his brother.

That night, Ian had returned to Jansen's room, and he brought a burger along, just like he promised. When he got back, he found Jansen sitting up in his bed and playing on his phone, the younger man was probably updating his followers about his current situation.

"Got your burger." Ian dropped the paper bag on his brother's lap.

"Took you long enough. There was a McDonald's just down this street! Where the hell were you, man? I was starving here!"

How ungrateful he was, but Ian only rolled his eyes in response.

"Actually, I went the long way. I... uh... I saw the Revelator."

"YOU WHAT?!" Jansen screamed, it looked as if he was ready to jump out of his bed.

"Hey, relax. I'm not hurt. He was, though. I found him in some alley. Unconscious." A part of Ian didn't want to tell this story to Jansen, but they've always shared things with each other, so Ian grabbed a chair and sat next to the younger's bed.

"He was so vulnerable, J. I... I wanted to... you know... kill him. Right there." There was a slight look of shame on the detective's face.

"But you didn't, because you don't like the idea of taking someone else's life." Even if it was Ian's own. Jansen always found it a little puzzling, but who was he to judge?

"No, I uh... I gave him up to the authorities. But... still. The thought crossed my mind. Even if he's a notorious fugitive, I'm pretty sure in that circumstance, it would count as murder. So..."

"Yeah, well... terrible thoughts cross everyone's minds from time to time. But if you don't act on it, that doesn't make you a bad person."

Ian had began to smile, his brother can be so wise sometimes, and the detective was damn proud of that.

"What DOES make you a bad person, however... is the fact that you forgot to ask for extra pickles on my burger, you blithering idiot!" Jansen finished his whining by throwing a pillow to Ian's face.

The elder Nashton retaliated by groaning and throwing the pillow back. 

How he missed these banters.

John

"Wake up."

Truth be told, John couldn't even understand those words. He just felt like it was the word being said in front of his fucking salad when a cold water splash his face.

Hey, this pattern is familiar.

He actually jerked up straight, mind blaring sirens and drove his whole mind on full alert mode. His eyes were still blurry out of the blood loss, and his limbs hurt like shit, but it wasn't just his feet now who feels as if it was refusing to move. It was his arms too.

"Hello, John."

Oh. Oh, not again.

John groaned, low and guttural as the realization hit him. He was still high from the pain, the tranquilizer (maybe), and from, basically, everything. He could barely see anything clearly, but, although John ain't an observer, he could understand what kind of shit he is in to.

The room was every shade of gray, from the cold concrete to the bland ceilings. Every corner was sharp and straight, and there was a bulb hanging just on top of his head, threatening to fall down as it dangles left and right without the actual consent of his worrisome heart towards the future impact.

At this point of time, someone had began to speak. And, holy fuck, John couldn't even understand what he means as his hearing only caught some faint "Hello", "Interrogation", and "Do you understand?"

No, he doesn't understand at all.

He knew that the room was jammed and somehow... crowded. He recognized the man behind the prior questions, and he was sitting in front of him. John couldn't make up his face as his eyes were still hazy and the room was poorly lit. Then there were two more people beside him on a tactical gears and were heavily armed. He can obviously see where this shit is going.

And with how this goddamn stranger keeps asking question, things just doesn't better.

So now all John did was groan softly as he tried to gain his composure back, because everything was too quick for him, but not enough for them. And he knew that because while John is sitting still, barely budging and saying any coherent word, he could feel the strand of his hair getting yanked behind and some loud "answer me!" before some blows were landed in his face.

Repeatedly. Over and over again.

At least take off your ring, goddamit.

"What's your name?"

"Who's on your list?"

"Is there anyone involved besides you?"

At one time there were fingers around his throat, at one time he was forced to stare right into that face full of wrinkle, and at another time he realized that maybe he should cut his hair soon because they're enjoying this shit too much. Kinky.

But he refused to answer. Even as he regained his full focus, he didn't answer. He wouldn't even give them the satisfaction of seeing him whimper or react.

So the Revelator sat still, letting the man fuck the shit outta him as he bit down his inner cheeks. 'Cause even though he didn't say anything, it didn't mean he didn't feel any pain.

It hurt like a goddamn bitch.

Ian Nashton

The next morning, Ian told Jansen that he had to go somewhere, something about seeing an old a friend.

He wasn't completely lying, but the full truth was that during the middle of the night, Ian Nashton received a text from agent Moore. The latter invited the former to meet in a certain location.

It was regarding the Revelator, who was now in their custody.

Ian was THRILLED to be invited. So, like going out to see an old friend, Ian dressed in his best suit, complete with a matching hat.

It may be a little extra, but hey, if you're going to see someone who (probably) thought you were dead, you might as well go all out.

When the detective reached the building, he was greeted by agents Moore and Lewis. Seeing them side by side was always a treat, because agent Moore was (freakishly) tall, whilst agent Lewis was short.

"We have provided the things that you asked for. Although... I'm still confused as to why you want them." Agent Moore explained as he led the detective down a flight of stairs.

"It's a Chicago thing."

It took some convincing, but Ian was allowed to be in the room alone with the Revelator.

When he entered, the room was pitch black, just the way he wanted it to be.

Ian can be such a theatrical bastard sometimes.

He felt around for the chair and sat down. Then the light flickered on.

"Hello, John."

And there he was.

The Revelator.

Restrained securely in his chair. He was all battered and bruised, looking so pale and tired. Confused and dazed.

Ian feigned a look of pity as he observed the other man's injuries.

"You don't look so good. I guess my friend's men really roughed you up, huh?"

Ian glanced to the left of the room and smiled thinly when he saw a telephone book and a baton.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not quite dead, John. As a matter of fact, I'm very much alive." Ian finished his sentence by patting John on the cheeks, purposefully hitting the latter's bruises.

ㅤㅤ

John

God knows how many hours had he passed out in the most painful position ever existed. When those bastards decided to leave the room and switched the lights off, John knew that he won't meet whomever they told him anywhere soon. So after a moment of short whining and groaning, John decided to sleep.

He deserved that good nap.

Wrong.

John could barely register the very fact that the jammed door had started to budge and gave this annoying, heavy creak. It took him a moment to regain his consciousness, until there come a flash of light and, really, it didn't do any good but to blind his eyes out.

His breath hitched when the heard the anonymous steps closer to him, and well, although John knew he's probably going to die in this miserable room, nothing had managed to cause his heart to beat so furiously except for a cheery voice.

That cheery voice.

"Detective," he whispered, unable to contain the soft chuckle or the slight tremble in his voice. He didn't know if it was because of pain or something else. But at this point of time, John knew that he's not going to die.

It's going to be ten times worsen with Ian fucking Nashton and his fancy hat.

"You look nice."

John glanced towards the man who had purposely hit the bruise on his cheek. ‘What an asshole,’ he thought, as he flashed a playful smirk towards the nosy detective. He was about to say something that might annoy him, again, but John figured out that by sealing his lips as secure as possible might be his best option—for now.

Especially after his eyes caught the slight glint of a baton and... a phone book

Seems like he ain't the only one losing his mind.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"You don't." Ian shot back almost immediately, his voice was laced with venom and hatred, yet his face remained neutral.

The detective removed his hat and placed it on the table. 

"Tsk, you're getting reckless, John. Going after foreign politicians, now? You could've started a war, you know?" 

The detective held back his smile. He wanted to play his cards right, because he's gotten a couple of things he could use against John.

Physical methods wouldn't work on John, Ian already knew that, but he knew things no other interrogators do.

But for now, he'll just get his revenge, physically.

"You've hurt my brother, John." Ian stated coldly. The detective stood up and walked towards the baton and telephone book. He never condoned using physical beatings during an interrogation, but after what John has put him and his friends through, he would make an exception.

"I can hold this book to the side of your head and use the baton at full swing, it'd hurt like hell, but it won't leave a mark. Would you like a demonstration?"

He didn't even wait for an answer. The detective did as he described, he held the phone book to the side of John's head and hits the arsonist with the baton at full swing. The resulting impact sound was loud, and it echoed through the room.

Ian was in disbelief for a moment, but truth be told, he's always wanted to do that. 

"Work with me, John. Tell me who's your next target." Another hit, harder than the last one.

The detective's voice had gone lower, angrier, and more aggressive. 

The detective has been penting up his frustrations and anger ever since he got out of the hospital.

He felt small then, but now? Now he wanted John to feel small. 

ㅤㅤ

John

Russian and brother. It didn't take a long time for John to realize that Ian's hatred wasn't exactly directed to the fact he literally almost started a war. And it was true that he was very reckless 'bout that, but John knew damn well that wasn't the reason.

Detective Ian fucking Nashton just wanted a revenge because of his brother.

So much for just.

John knew what's coming at him, and he wasn't entirely surprised when a full land blew across his face. His face closed in a grimace, its skin pale, clammy, and goddamn bruised. Every few minutes his mind begged so he could scream, like those guys in any Tarantino movie that was being tortured, but he can't. And this shit is worse.

So much worse.

John ain't letting the bastard get the satisfaction to see him scream, groan, or even hear a single fucking whine.

The detective didn't even let him answer as another hard blow hits his already bruised cheeks. Searing pain pulsated around the wound, intensifying the cut like a goddamn bitch. With every hit, his muscle quivered, twitched, making him jolt in surprise. The black mists swirled at the edges of his eyes, but John ain't going to answer.

He just tilted his head, and smiled.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

It's true. This was mostly revenge, though having other reasons helped his conscience.

Blow after blow, the detective hadn't stopped. Perhaps after John did the same thing to him, something dark in him might have awakened, and it showed its ugly face now.

So much hatred, so much anger.

It was consuming him.

And then there's that smile again. Ian dropped the baton and used the phone book to hit John directly on the face—he wanted to wipe the smile off of that bastard's face.

If the chair wasn't so sturdy, John would probably have been knocked backwards by the blow. 

The detective slammed the phone book on the table, and he sat on the edge of it. 

He'll take a break and change tactics now.

"Playing this game again, are you, Mr. Monsoon? That's your name, isn't it? Or at least, it's the name that you took. You're not the real John Monsoon, he died in the late nineties. Agent Moore was there. You remember him, don't you?"

The detective was so, /so/ kind to brush John's hair away from his face.

"After all, you were the fourth shooter on that day, weren't you? John Monsoon—the real one, Cole Hedlund, Paul MacCullagh… and… you."

Ian wasn't a hundred percent sure yet, but the trick was to appear confident. And he was confident. 

"I'll ask for your real name, but you're probably just going to smile at me. You know, I admire your strength. I really do. We're alike in that respect. But I can see it—your body's beginning to tremble. How long will it be until you finally crack?" 

ㅤㅤ

John

Another blow landed on his face, another pain in the goddamn ass.

John was stumbling now, and he thanked the God for the fucking chair because everything was fading. And it hurts. Holy fucking shit, it hurt like a goddamn bitch but John sat quietly. Nothing can ever fucking wipe the smug on his face.

That, until, the goddamn detective stopped his movement, stared intently at him, and said the word, ‘Monsoon’. But it's nothing new. After all, he literal crave those words on the detective's skin.

And John was about to flash that goddamn grin again when it finally hits him.

"John Monsoon."

"Cole Hedlund."

"Paul MacCullagh."

Something new. Not his name.

His foster parents' name.

John eyes blown wide.

Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not ask a shit to the goddamn CIA, or the FBI, or any other shit, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not know about John Monsoon, Cole Hedlund, or Paul MacCullagh, but he's alive.

And he knows.

He's fucked.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Now it was Ian's turn to smile. 

It was genuine, you could even call it sweet.

His deduction was right. The man in front of him /was/ the fourth shooter. 

John didn't even need to say anything—his reaction said it all. 

"Gerard, old friend! He really was your fourth shooter." 

The detective wasn't sure where it was, but he knew there's a device somewhere in this room that'd allow others on the outside to listen in.

The detective turned his attention back to John. He grabbed the man's chin oh so gently and tilted his head up.

"Are you ready to talk now, or do I have to spill all your secrets first, hmm?"

Ian leaned in closer, until his lips were mere centimeters away from John's ear. He whispered, so only the two of them can hear what was being said.

"Trust me, John. They're better off between me and you than with them."

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't even get himself to be disgusted or anything by the sudden contact. He was far too distracted with multiple set of ‘what’ and ‘how’ and just, ‘why?’

Even now calling himself as John feels so wrong. It felt so weird in his own mind because deep down he know that name wasn't his. The Revelator wasn't ‘his’. It was never his and it should have never been his, but, fucking hell, what are the odds

When the detective lifted his head ever so slowly so now that bastard could clearly see how John's pupils had shrunk so badly, he wished he could just back away and lift that usual smug grin of his, but he froze. Heavens, he froze.

That fucking grin had faltered away and now it's planted on Ian fucking Nashton's annoying face.

That son of a bitch.

John would rather bite his motherfucking tongue off and be a mute than having to talk. 'Cause no matter what the fucking detective said, no matter how good and relishing that goddamn offer sounded in his ears, nothing—for fuck's sake—nothing will actually get better.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Perhaps something had changed in the detective ever since that incident at the barn—but Ian hadn't realized yet.

The detective landed a sudden, full-blown slap across John's face and exhaled forcefully.

"That was for trying to burn me alive. Nice try, though."

Beating with a baton and telephone book for what John did to his brother, and a slap for what he did to the detective himself.

"Anyway. John, Paul, and Cole. Most people would wonder what your connection to them is, but by process of elimination, /I/ know that they'd have to be a parental figure of some kind. Why else would a teenager be with three grown men?"

There could be other reasons, but Ian had crossed those out already.

"I also know that John Monsoon—the one that died—must be the one you were closest to. Because you took HIS name. Not Paul's, not Cole's. But John's." 

The detective had backed away by now, and he was idly flipping through the pages of the telephone book. Occasionally, he did glance at John, just to see if the latter had changed expressions.

"He must be the one you considered a father. I mean, you took his identity, not just as John, but also as the Revelator. He taught you. And you hold him in high regards, I'm sure."

ㅤㅤ

John

The fact that detective Ian fucking Nashton known about the holy trinity shocked him, but it didn't leave that much of an impression. After all, they were long gone. What does that have to do with John? It might shake him a little, but it ain't gonna make him tremble forever.

At this point of time, it wasn't even surprising to him anymore that all of the deductions were right, yet of course, he won't ever, ever, ever say that in front of his face.

Despite having beaten up like a pulp, John still managed to reply. Not directly, though, fuck that silent treatment. Now he's rolling his eyes 'cause he's really irritated and, gosh, if only John ain't having his arms and legs tied up, he might have smacked the detective's head so hard, just to make him shut his mouth.

But neither sentence nor a single word slipped from his mouth. John has been kind enough to his own self for letting him whine or groan or just sorta respond to the surprising slap. Yet he still didn't speak a thing. Even without having him to talk, the detective just keeps talking and John figured out that he might as well let him do that rather than spilling all the tea.

Instead, John giggled. A quiet and short one, just to see if it could taunt the detective even more.

My, oh, my. It might hurt him like a bitch, but seeing how desperate someone could look even if it was hidden beneath a triumphant smile surely bring some pride to blossom in his chest.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

There's that giggle again. That brief yet fucked up giggle he couldn't shake off ever since the barn incident. 

        He hated it.

But Ian kept his attention to the phone book, as if he was looking for something. 

"You're giggling now, but I know something that they don't. Something very precious to you."

The detective's finger stopped at an address in the phone book. He tapped it a couple of times before showing it to John.

"You recognize this address?" Ian asked, that smile was back on his face.

       A sweet but knowing smile.

Of course John would recognize it.

It was the address of Peter's school.

"I know who they are." The detective suddenly closed the telephone book shut, it made a loud thud which echoed through the room. 

"Peter's a bright kid, you know? I was helping him solve the murder of his classmate whilst you were wreaking havoc in my town. Has he ever mentioned that?" 

The detective flicked John's forehead with his fingers and chuckled to himself. 

"He probably already knows, if not from his own investigations, then the news. He probably doesn't know the full truth, though, hm? I wonder what he would say if he knew more than what he knows now? If he knew that you kidnapped me and tried to burn me alive? If he knew that you've hurt Jansen?" 

The detective got off from the table and returned to his seat across from John.

"What would he say if he knew that you might have just started a war because you were so reckless? I know about them, John. Your family."

The detective adjusted the position of his glasses. His smile was now gone, and instead, there was a cold expression on his face. 

He actually only knew about Peter, but part of it all is to let the enemy think you know more—to keep a poker face. Just as he was doing now.

"Now they know, too."

Ian gestured at the door, referring to the agents that may be outside.

"So, John. Are you still keen on playing the silent game?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John was leaning away, whatever the bastard is showing him, he doesn't really care.

Hell, he thought as if it was easy to actually read without a proper lighting. But when the book echoes around the room and the detective said "I know who they are", John's heart skipped a beat.

"Peter's a bright kid, you know?"

And that's what it takes for John to still, again. Eyes blowing wide, but his mouth isn't shut. John's jaw was slack. His face fell faster than Humpty Dumpty with a cement boots.

He could feel his brain stutters for a moment and every part of him went on pause while his thoughts were struggling to catch up. And when the detective pointed at the door, the notorious Revelator feels as if his blood were drained to the last bit.

It was hard to breathe.

"Shut up," he whispered, his voice sounded as if there were ropes coiled around his neck.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

That look of terror on the Revelator's face somehow brought positive feelings to the detective, and he laughed.

He was amused, though still in disbelief that he managed to shake they infamous Revelator.

Him, a four eyed detective with good connections and observation skills.

"What was that, John? I can't hear you."

As a matter of fact, he did hear it, but he wanted to hear it again. After minutes of silent treatments, John finally began to crack. Even if it wasn't anything useful.

       He cracked.

"You had your chance, you know. I really didn't want it to come to this, but you were so stubborn." The detective slammed his hand on the table—as if about to begin an outburst, but he inhaled slowly.

"You were priding yourself on being able to keep quiet, but… look what it has come down to. That's selfishness, John. Even /I'm/ not like that."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Shut up," he whispered again, lower, quieter, and it was even barely inaudible 'cause he knew that the goddamn detective could hear himself crystal clear.

And John was about to keep it like that, but as time went by, the laughter just makes his blood boil and his skin scorching and the piercing headache just made him want to rip himself apart, 'cause after all this time, after facing into countless of a problem either caused by himself or by some other useless fuckstains, this is the first time John felt so hopelessly useless.

"Shut up, shut up, shut the HELL up!"

He barked, eyes glaring as if he was trying to drill a hole into the other's face, and teeth gritted as if he had been staring at the devil himself. There was no softness in that gaze. It was a look that conveyed a bubbling hatred. Disgust perhaps.

The chain rattled as he jolted his body forward, perhaps almost stumbling but the urge to bite the latter's neck off was so fucking irresistible. He doesn't give a damn fuck if those things are going to leave a mark, he doesn't give a damn fuck about anything.

Except for his kids.

And it's a real flaw,

Now he's failing 'cause of it.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Finally, there's that reaction he's been waiting for. The Revelator was no longer the one smiling—the detective was.

Ian leaned away when John tried to lunge forward, though there's still a (smug) smile on the detective's face.

The Revelator may have broken people with his fists, his guns and his knives. But Ian Nashton has broken plenty of other criminals through his words and wits alone.

The pen is truly mightier than the sword.

"Peter mentioned the name Andre a lot—that's his friend, no?" The detective closed his eyes and visualized the Revelator's living room again, he visualized the socks scattered in the room.

"A son and a daughter. You took them in, they might have been dropped by your doorstep, but you began to care more and more for them. Somehow balancing a suburban life and being the Revelator. Until… I came around. Now, history has its eyes on you."

The detective crossed one leg over on top the other.

"Piece by piece, bit by bit. I unraveled you, John. You once told me that I should be afraid of you—but I think it should be you who's afraid."

And he knew, deep down, John was afraid. If not for himself, then for his kids.

"Let me ask you a riddle: I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I'm worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?"

The detective has never really felt like this before. He felt so… powerful.

And he didn't wait for an answer.

"Love. For some, it can be their strength. But for others, it can be their weakness. What is it for you, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John's nose flared. He could barely breath due to the immense sensation on his lungs. His mind was clouded, his chest heaving heavily with every breath he took, and now his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, threatening to jump out and breaking away all his bones.

In another situation, John would shrug at the question, but now he's just furious. The once soft panic had grown into a turmoil inside his mind, swirling against his thoughts into a vortex of impulsiveness and stupidity. He found himself gnawing the inside of his cheeks until the taste of blood filled his mouth, and yet, John can't help but to stare intently at his captor and bark some more.

"Compared to the probability of me getting outta here alive, there's a bigger chance I would die on this shit hole," he begins, never for once his eyes left the other's sinister gleam. Just by letting the hatred slip into his brain already makes his breathing rapid and shallow. John can feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

"But lemme tell you what, detective. If I do manage to get the fuck out of here, I will let you know, 'cause that would be the day when no aid will come at you. Hell will be naked before you and destruction has no covering upon your fucking, pretty face. And just when you thought you were safe behind those closed walls with your fucking FBI dogs, I will proof you wrong, sweetheart. You know who I am, baby, you know who the Revelator is. With a donkey's jawbone I have made donkeys of them. With a donkey's jawbone I have killed a thousand men. But I ain't gonna start by killing you first, oh no, I will fill your mountains with the dead. Your hills, your valleys, and your streams will be filled with people slaughtered by the sword. I will make you desolate forever, sweetheart. And when the last light burns out in your dense skull, I’ll be there to inhale the smoke that comes from your fucking burnt bones."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

To any normal person, those threats alone would send shivers down their spine.

But detective Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person by any means. He always smiled and kept his head up in the face of danger.

So he smiled. As if John had just told him the sweetest of words instead of threats. 

It helped that he knows that he has some sort of leverage over John. With his knowledge and connections, Ian was certain he'd have more. 

"My dearest John," he began, "I know exactly who you are. Maybe better than you know yourself. But you don't know me—not as well as I know you—or what /I/ am capable of. With what I know about you, and your family… are you really willing to risk that?"

The detective's eyes darted towards one corner of the room, where he assumed the microphone would be. 

He knows that there was at least one agent on the other side.

"One of his kids' name's Peter Brown. I've talked to him. Nice kid—you wouldn't believe the Revelator's his father. Anyway, I'm sure he won't mind to have a little chat."

The detective returned his gaze to the man sitting in front of him. The expression on the detective's face was cold and unfeeling—perhaps John could even see the darkness behind those spectacles.

        It was unlike himself.

"Are you just going to continue making threats, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

Any normal person would just back off, but John has always known that Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person. If any way, John is most likely to be digging his own grave for blabbering too much, but there's no pain in trying, right?

Seems like he was wrong.

When the words started to roll from the latter's lips, John had anticipated for the words outcome. But he didn't anticipate... this.

When the goddamn detective flicked his eyes towards the corner of the room, John's bowel dropped. And not just that, when he starts mentioning Peter's full name, he felt the world shatter around him. He wasn't even sure if his heart had skipped another one or two beats or whether it was thumping so fast to the point it feels like nothing at all.

"Y—you're a monster."

He choked, biting his lips so hard as he struggled to keep himself from stammering too much. God forbids him from trembling, but as the gut-wrenching sobs tore through his chest, he just couldn't help himself. John could feel his head spinning around when the realization finally hit him; those cold eyes are giving it away.

He had just reached the end of his fall.

"You're worse than the devil himself."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"That's rich, coming from the man who has a tendency to burn people alive. That's not even the worst of your crimes, is it? You're the one that has tortured and murdered people. You're the one that caused needless deaths and destruction. You're the one that has raped that poor woman," Ian scoffed, disgusted. 

"And yet, /I'm/ the monster? For what? All I said was that I'm sure Peter would LOVE to have a chat to us about his dear old dad. Fine, maybe today I've used more extreme methods with the telephone book and baton. But it pales in comparison to what you have done. Aside from that… our time together here has been perfectly legal."

Truth be told, Ian felt a slight guilt when John began to sob. But he's built himself up to this moment now, and the detective kept that cold expression. 

"Maybe in your twisted little world, I am worse than the devil. And so what? Do you see yourself as a saint? I doubt it, but it'll be laughable if you did."

Somehow, this was no longer really an interrogation anymore, but more of a 'break The Revelator' session.

"I'm an agnostic man, if you haven't noticed. So go on, threaten me with hell all you want. Because I don't believe in it."

The detective wasn't done yet. Oh no.

"I would have left you in that alley to bleed out that night. I don't know if you remember. But I helped you—I WANTED to help ou. For Peter's sake, anyway. He loves you very much, surely he'd be devastated if he saw that you've been found dead in some dark alley."

The detective stood up and leaned over the table, and he pointed to the other man accusingly.

"YOU were so stubborn, though. Even more stubborn than I had been. We tried so hard to work with you, but you were just so arrogant and prideful, weren't you? Like I said, I REALLY didn't want to pull this card, but you brought this upon yourself, John."

The detective crossed his arms and scoffed once more.

"This. Is. YOUR. Fault."

ㅤㅤ

John

John wasn't the type to deny the truth. Hell, how could he? All of his shit has been exposed to the rest of the world. Even recently, he saw a blog dedicated to him, the Revelator himself.

And although John could actually manage to say that he's doing it for the people's own good, although he could actually say that everyone he had ever slaughtered like a lamb had given one chance to change, although John could actually tell the detective that the police sucked bad so he decided to do anything by himself, John didn't. Not that it mattes now.

What matters now is now the official knows about his kids, and that was due to the courtesy of Ian Nashton.

John didn't even bother to contain the choked out sobs as he feels his eyes starting to burn, surely he had brought this all to himself, but who knows that the detective could be this petty?

Using his kids to blackmail him, heh, so must for just.

He started chewing on his lower lip and his eyes welled up with tears. Pitiful as it sounds, John was on the edge. He knows he had failed one thing he desperately try to do.

"Yet you haven't seen me punishing a son for his father's crime," he whispered.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective sat on the table again, and he grabbed John's chin to lift the man's head. Just with one glance, he could see that there were tears in the other man's eyes.

      He did this.

He reduced the Revelator to tears. 

He wasn't proud of it, though. He knows it isn't the most clean of methods, but the detective doesn't consider this to be straight up blackmail. He'd call it… persuasion.

Blackmail is the act of demanding money or another benefit from someone in return for not revealing compromising information about them.

Ian hasn't actually done that—but he wanted John to think that he did.

      (He had to do what he had to do)

And it seemed to work. He reduced the fearsome Revelator to tears by mere words.

The detective actually felt genuine pity for John.

John looked so pathetic.

The detective took out his pocket square and gently patted John's eyes dry. For a moment, that cold gaze was gone, replaced by something more affable. Caring, even.

He lowered his voice, so only the two of them could hear it. The detective made an effort to sound kinder, too—it was as if he had become a different person.

"Tsk, tsk. /I/ never said anything about punishing him. You see, I'm not in charge here. But those guys out there? Who knows what they'll do? Agent Moore is one of the best men here that I've ever met. But as for the rest of them, I can't say the same thing." Ian placed the fabric on his lap and once again brushed John's hair away from his face. "It's your fault, yes, but you have a chance to fix it. To make it right. Cooperate and answer the questions you have been asked. It's simple, isn't it?"

The detective folded the fabric neatly and placed it back where it was. He took his hat and idly brushed his thumb across the fabric.

"Then we can get you help. Professional help. Think about it, John. You could live normally amongst society. With your kids—you don't have to do any of this anymore."

Ian let out yet another sigh, "I'm sure your children would like that too. Not having to deal with you being absent, or in jail. Think about it, John. Because once I'm out of here, I don't think I can help you anymore."

ㅤㅤ

John

At some point of time, John knew he has to say something. He highly doubted that the detective will let him slide that easily without getting any answer, especially since he had thrown all the cards at him. He had come this far, why would he stop?

But it still leaves a huge question mark on his head. Some people might be able to pull some strings for him, but it won't ever cleanse him from all the crimes he did. If not in front of the law, then maybe God will, but who fucking knows?

Hence John stayed still, lips sealed tight. He refused to meet the man's eyes and decided to stare right into the cold, gray concrete.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Depends. Some of us can pull some strings. Not me, though. I don't have that kind of power." The detective shrugged and placed the hat back on his head.

"Would you rather stay here with uncertainty, or would you rather have the chance to be able to see your kids again? I hate the insanity plea as much as the next person but I'm just saying that there's a chance you could be put in an asylum."

The detective now stood behind John and gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

"Now it's up to you. Just answer a few questions, it's not that hard, is it? If not for me, do it for your kids."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"It's fine. Take your time to think—but I really don't have much. So I'll ask you again. What's your real name? Who's your next target?" Those two questions were the main things that they wanted—especially Ian.

"What made you like this, John? Do you even remember?"

Ian honestly wanted this to be over just as much as John did—though he's played all his cards, the detective wasn't proud that he had to stoop so low. Now that the anger had left him.

The children were perfectly safe.

But John needed to think otherwise.

The detective had to do what he had to do.

ㅤㅤ

John

John had it seen coming at him. Everyone and their curious mind and their oh-so-important questions. Have they heard about curiosity killed the cat? He doesn't think so.

So when the detective begins with his questions, John takes a deep breath, hoping it would stop himself from trembling. It didn't work, but at least he tried.

What's your name?

"John."

Who's your next target?

"Haven't decided yet."

What made you like this?

"I don’t know."

Do you even remember?

He stayed quiet.

"No."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian was familiar to the saying. Curiosity killed the cat. Who isn't? After all, it is a well known saying—warning people of the dangers of unnecessary investigation. 

But how many people are familiar with the later half of the saying? The rejoinder?

But satisfaction brought it back. 

Finding the answer would be a reward in itself. That's why the detective pressed on.

"I asked for your REAL name. Not the one you took from your parental figure!" The detective slammed his hand on the table again. "Don't lie to me, you bastard."

Ian narrowed his eyes and spoke in a warning tone. "Don't make me do something you'd regret."

ㅤㅤ

John

John was never a good liar and he wasn't even planning to hide it this time. Instead, he stared down at his feet, again, struggling to keep himself on hold 'cause now the slightest pitch of tone from the detective had managed to bring himself into a full alert mode. He can feel himself trembling again.

So he didn't respond.

Not a single word, not a single huff of breath.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Being observant as he was, it's no surprise that Ian would be like a living lie detector.

The detective crossed his arms and sighed in disappointment.

"Fine. Have it your way. But let me just remind you, that you brought this upon yourself."

Ian Nashton glanced at the corner of the room again.

"Bring the kids in."

ㅤㅤ

John

Eyes widening in surprise, John weren't expecting any of that to come from the detective's foul mouth. But he shit you not that the very first response he gave was not a defiant look, but it was a smile full of disbelief. Half frowning, half quirking his brows, John said, “You're mad.”

But when he saw the cold look across the man's visage, John felt himself getting light-headed again. Everything was spinning and falling and he could feel his arms struggling to free himself from the chair. And when it should hurt a lot, John could barely register it as he feels the dam of his eyes breaking away, again.

"You can't do that," he said, and even though he was still smiling—chuckling, even—the glints of his eyes were filled with nothing but a full terror.

"You're fucking mad, they're only seventeen, you can't do anything to innocent kids, they don't have anything to do with this, you bastard!"

And that was supposed to be a threat, but with the way his voice stammering, eyes reddening, and streams of tears flowing faster than his own heartbeat, it sounded more of a plead.

"Jesus Christ!" John barked, his body wracked with an onslaught of sobs and tears.

"You're absolutely mad, please, oh my god, kill me already, just kill me, but don't do anything to them, please, please, please, please, please don't."

He wasn't even trying to free himself anymore, all the frantic movement was just an attempt to get himself closer to the detective because he can feel his voice breaking away, and he's afraid he couldn't hear him in between the choked sobs.

"I'll tell you anything, just don't do anything, please, it's Monsoon, it's Monsoon. My name is Monsoon, please."

John stared at the man, his voice breaking away every second which passed them.

"It's Isaiah Monsoon."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian would be lying if he said he didn't feel his stomach drop when he saw those terror stricken eyes. Yes, at the beginning he'd laughed and smiled at John, but now? Now the detective's conscience was starting to get to him.

But he kept that cold and unfeeling expression as best as he could. He has gotten this far. He can feel the guilt later, after this is all done.

"What about the innocent lives lost because of your actions, huh?! They also had nothing to do with it, yet they suffered! Innocent people have lost their lives too because of you, John!" Ian raised his voice again. "And what of my brother? He was just a man going to a video convention, caught in your explosion that night. Besides, I never said anything about hurting them. You just assumed that that would happen."

The detective inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. He hadn't anticipated how John was begging and pleading. Not for his life, but for death. 

He was in tears.

And it didn't happen because he was beaten to a pulp. Not by agent Moore's men, not even by the detective himself.

    But because of Ian's words.

And finally, there's that name he has been after this entire time. Said in between sobs and pleads, the detective almost didn't hear it.

"Isaiah. Of course. It makes perfect sense. See, I expected it to have been a Biblical name. Kind of odd to be addressing you in this way, though. Huh. And I'm sure it must be odd to hear it roll off my tongue."

That information satisfied his own curiosity (and probably agent Moore's as well), but technically speaking, it wasn't of much use.

"You still have other unanswered questions. But I believe you were telling the truth. At least... about your next target. There is no list, is there? You just go after whoever you can, correct?"

Despite the horrible feeling he had in his stomach, the detective still managed to force a thin smile. John's statement about the detective being mad had amused him.

How ironic that the deranged Revelator accused the detective of madness.

"By the way, I'm not mad, /Isaiah/. Just a well connected man who happens to notice everything. Although... I wouldn't blame you for thinking otherwise. There's a quote often thought to have been said by Aristotle, "No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness". What do you think?"

When Ian looked into the other's eyes, he no longer saw the fierceness he was so familiar with, he just saw desperation and hopelessness. He saw /fear/. The once fearsome Revelator was now a mess, covered in bruises and dried up blood; his cheeks dampened with tears and his voice breaking with each word he tried to say.

Ian felt pity for the man, but a tiny part of him in the back of the detective's mind wanted to laugh at John.

Like it was a sickness.

    Was this how John had felt at the barn?

The detective leaned against the doorway, he was ready to leave, but he kept his gaze locked on the other man.

"Anything? Well, go on then. You better have something good, otherwise I will go. For starters, tell me. Do you work alone? Or do you have some sort of a team, just like the previous Revelator?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't—Isaiah can't even think straight as the only thing in his mind was, "the detective is right".

All of the things happened, all of the innocent life he had taken away, and all of the things that might happen to his kids, everything were all his fault. He knew he'd done something awful when he had to work so hard to justify it. The more demanding the reparations his subconscious required, the worse he knew it was.

He couldn't even hear whatever the detective had been blabbering because now the guilt did not only sit on his chest, but also deep inside his brain. All the things he had done could never be un-done. Even if he tried to make amends, Isaiah knows that it was still out of the questions.

Even confessing to Father Brown won't erase the guilt nor lift any single weight from it. Even if he speaks his heart to God and beg for his mercy, nothing would make him feel better.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed. No words came out of his lips except for restless murmurs of pleading, choked out sobs and a loud sniff. He could only shake his head when the detective asked him something. The guild that had been eating himself, pestering him, and burning the end of his throat had prevented him on speaking anything.

Four second. Five seconds. Six seconds passed. He wonders if his tears would drain out in a night because he couldn't stop himself from bawling. He had clung his faith in the love of Christ and hung the remains of his sanity on it. Every night he prayed that one day all of his pain would be let unfurl and his sin will be washed clean. But now he had to face the truth.

He had done this to himself, he had done this to his kids.

And if something happens to them, how could he forgive himself?

He shook his head.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective wasn't sure what he was feeling. He felt guilt, but somewhere inside him, he also felt satisfaction.

He had a principle that sometimes, surely the right way is the ugly way. But was this the right way, or is it just ugly? Ian wasn't sure.

Would this be worth it in the long run? Perhaps.

He let out a deep sigh. He wanted to give John—no, Isaiah—some pats on the back out of pity, (and perhaps subtly apologize) but he was certain that that may ruin the illusion he has built this far. So he only cleared his throat to get the other man's attention.

"Well, I'm afraid I must go now. As long as you cooperate and behave, your children will be safe." That sentence alone was hard for him to say, because it was a lie—his children are perfectly safe regardless of what he'll do.

But it's all an act. He had to keep it up.

"I really didn't want it to be like this, but you left me no choice. I suppose it's been kind of nice meeting you again. See you never, J—I mean, Isaiah." 

The detective immediately stumbled out of the room and slammed the door behind him. There wasn't a single soul outside except for agent Moore. 

Still, Ian Nashton leaned against the door and slumped to the ground, he let his head hang low as he massaged his temples with both of his hands.

"Fucking hell, I can't believe I did that. That was cruel, even for someone like him. Tell me everyone else was gone when I mentioned his family."

The ridiculously tall agent Moore crouched in front of Ian and gave a reassuring nod, though he wasn't sure if the detective had seen it. "Yes. I ordered them to leave as soon as you had stopped hitting him."

Ian removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a groan. "I feel sick—it was my idea but somehow I feel sick. I feel conflicted. Damn it, Gerard, I feel sick."

The agent placed a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder, "I'm sure… even I was a little… surprised, Ian. But… hey. The ends will justify the means, wouldn't it?"

"I guess—I hope so. I know his kids are perfectly safe. But still, seeing him like that? I feel kind of… pitiful. Underneath that Revelator exterior he seem like he could be a good father." Ian sighed deeply and held his head in his hands.

"Trust me, detective. I've seen worse methods. What you've done today pales in comparison to what I've witnessed first hand. Now, come on. I think you should go home." The taller man stood up and held out his hand for Ian.

The detective took it and pulled himself up. He casted a hesitant glance at the door and an image of a broken down Isaiah crossed his mind, though he immediately shook it off.

"R-right. I should probably go—clear my head. Thank you, for the opportunity and for arranging all of this. And, um. Yeah. Do no harm." Ian wasn't sure what came over him, but he pulled the older man into a brief hug before he made his way out of the building.

He trusted agent Moore, Ian knew he wouldn't do anything to John's kids because he has a nephew of his own.

ㅤㅤ

John

When the door shut close, Isaiah didn't even stop himself from tearing out. It hurts, everything hurts. His muscles, his head, his heart. It could be a hundred degrees out and he'd still be frozen on the inside. Everything feels cold and he can't stop shivering, trembling.

There is static in his head once more; the side effect of this constant fear, the constant stress he lives with. The pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream, then a heart wrenching wail.

The detective was right.

He had done this to himself.

He had done this to them.

Now he could only beg.

"Just kill me already."

[thedesignair]

Flight: WY103 Aircraft Type: 787-9 Class: Business Class Route: MCT-LHR Date: March 2019

www.omanair.com

After our outbound trip in Oman Air’s outstanding First Class product, it was time to return home and give the equally impressive Business Class a run for its money. While the Apex Suite is a seasoned favourite for many travellers, it is interesting to see how this seat and the airline’s cabin had been brought to life by Seattle-based design studio Teague.

Positioned as a boutique carrier based in the Middle East, Oman Air continues to push the envelope when it comes to the passenger experience. We were thrilled to have the opportunity to experience this intimate 787-9 business class cabin. After all, Teague took inspiration from Oman’s rich heritage and modern hospitality, and with the smallest of details, elevated the experience beyond just a comfortable hard product. You could see the meticulous detail with virtually every element, and the result… a residential feel to each suite, designed in collaboration with Collins Aerospace.

On the Ground

While we will go in to the lounge in greater detail in a later post, it is suffice to say the carrier has benefitted hugely from the new terminal it operates from in Muscat.

In the terminal, there is a dedicated check in zone, separated from the rest of the check in area, exclusive to Business Class and First Class passengers with Oman Air. Situated behind some very discreet glass doors is a huge check in area that features armchairs, dedicated personnel and a fast track access to the security channel, but considering so many passengers connect through the airport, the whole area was deserted.

The whole check-in process was effortless and very discreet, matching the demographic of First Class & Business Class passengers who value their privacy. We were escorted to the lounge, which took all of 5 minutes from arrival to walking in the terminal.

Stay tuned for our report on the lounge, which was in itself a wonderland of ornate gold fretwork, fine champagnes and luxurious rich finishes. It’s the perfect way to start a flight, with the First Class lounge being both incredibly quiet, and perfectly private.

The Cabin

While our first class experience ended in the lounge this time, 45 minutes before departure we were able to enjoy priority boarding and quickly boarded their latest aircraft’s 787-9 Business Class cabin. It’s split in to two mini cabins each only two seats deep. One to the forward of the entry door, and the other behind.

On entry, you can see the similar ornate detailing that adorns the First Class cabin, but in a more understated, utilitarian approach. The most impressive first impression of the cabin is its intimacy. Unlike its ME3 competitors which features A380s with a sea of business class seats, this small cabin feels exclusive and perfectly formed. It’s a phycological result, but you feel a lot more valued in a smaller business class cabin than in those larger never-ending cabins.

The entrance way features a similar graphic motif of the Omani arches that decorate in the First Class in a 3D relief. It’s a subtle detail, but the walls, monuments and bulkheads all feature a unique intricate interwoven pattern that softens the physical walls and adds texture.

The only splash of colour can be found in the curtains that conceal the galley. There’s an intricate fabric, which features 3D weaving to increase depth and texture, which offsets the often plastic feel to these cabins.

The seats feature in a 1 x 2 x 1 configuration, although realistically, they are 2 x 2 x 2, but due to the staggered nature of the suites on the window sides of the cabin, every seat features aisle-access.

The Seat

The suite features a very sophisticated sandy-grey and rich leather brown colour scheme for the seat, offset with a simple cream and deep grey finish on the shell that adds a visual weight to the cabin, drawing the eye down, and away from the dividing walls between the seat, and focussing the attention to the seat and TV screens.

The Apex Suites is one of our favourites for good reason. They are forward facing, incredibly wide, don’t feature a restrictive footwell and allow for every passenger to access the aisle. While either enjoying privacy due to an electronic divider or virtually sitting next to a travelling companion, it’s a versatile product too.

Its versatility is one of the reasons it scores so highly with us, however, it does have a couple of small flaws. Firstly, from a LOPA perspective, it takes up a large footprint in the cabin, reducing the amount of seats a carrier could fit in to a similar space, and from a passenger’s perspective, it lacks the storage and table surface area that makes for a practical business class seat (although the aisle seats – excluding the middle pair – feature a mini side table storage by the shoulder).

However, these are just minor gripes, mostly offset by Oman Air’s often bargain fares in the business class cabin, far undercutting its neighbouring competitors on certain routes at certain times of the year.

The seat is well padded, and the diamond stitch pattern is incredibly attractive. The ergonomically positioned seat controls, huge screen and forward facing nature makes these luxuriously appointed seats, so much so most refer to them as suites.

Of course in comparison to the airlines’ First Class cabin, the seats are a little narrower, and certainly don’t feature doors, but its not to detract from what is one of the best business class hard products in the sky. Regarding which seat to choose, it really doesn’t matter, they are all equally good, although the front row will benefit from the most privacy due to lack of footfall, and being furthest away from the galley.

The Food and Drink

The service follows a similar style to that of First Class, with a warm nut and drink service to start with including Laurent-Perrier champagne, one of our all-time favourite pours, which is served waiter-style, at the seat.

Being a late night departure, many guests had already eaten in the lounge, so many guests were already asleep. What’s nice is that the cabin lights aren’t raised for the food service, meaning that for those sleeping, it’s not disrupted by bright lights on a fairly short red-eye.

The dinner is also a relatively light dish, with a toasted steak sandwich being my option, but there were kebabs and sweet potato soup that could also be chosen from. Being a ‘dine any time’ concept, these could also have been served at any time during the flight.

The main meal was breakfast which included a full, proper service including starter, main course and teas, coffees, hot towels etc.

What is truly amazing about the service is the tableware, it’s some of the finest plates and most stylish cutlery I’ve ever seen. The geometric salt and pepper shakers are also little works of art in their own right, and the linens used are beautifully pressed. The attention to detail is exceptional.

The service started with warmed selection of breads, which were full of flavour, not soggy or too hard from being left in the aircraft atmosphere too long which dries out bread super fast.

What followed was a breakfast appetiser. I went for the smoked salmon and kingfish, which was delightfully rich and to be honest, huge. This would have been enough it its own right, however, we also selected the main course of scrambled eggs and chicken kofta, which was so moreish we ended up stuffed just before landing.

The service was relatively quick, maximising sleep time, and served about 1.45 before landing. It truly was an exceptional food service, and the airline offered a wide range of wines and champagne too which reflect’s the carrier’s ambition to truly excel throughout the passenger experience touch-points.

Considering the galley was directly in front of us, we never heard any commotion, talking, or crashing of plates, which showcases the airline’s training, although the end result was in the courteous, always smiling staff who brought the hard product to life. Even after heading to the toilet between courses to change, I returned to a perfectly re-folded napkin. It’s elements like this which are hard to replicate when catering for 70+ business class passengers.

The Entertainment

Like the First Class trip, Aria serves a wealth of movies and TV shows, and while they might not have the biggest library, there’s certainly enough to keep you entertained on a 6-7 hour flight. Their longest flights are sub 10 hours, so there’s not the need to provide a huge catalogue.

The screen itself was large, and as you are sat so far back from it, it ends up being a respectful size to view, although an extra couple of inches wouldn’t hurt. The whole system is powered by a handheld controller that is akin to a smartphone.

The GUI (user interface) is beautiful too, with sweeping landscapes reflecting the physical incarnation of the rolling mountains of Oman and desert tones. It’s a symbiotic digital and hard product relationship that is executed perfectly.

The airline also offers a range of printed materials, including the somewhat dated Wings of Oman magazine, although this still needs a lift to bring it up to the same level of the rest of the branded environment.

There are also decent headphones which are noise cancelling, but nothing really to write home about.

The Extras

The airline offers substantial pillows, a large comfortable thick blanket (but no separate bedding) slippers, pyjamas – which are becoming more and more a rarity in business class – and a great Amouage amenity kit.

The amenity kit included a range of Amouage lotions, lip balms etc, a dental kit, hairbrush/comb, socks, eye mask, and even a shaving kit.

Throughout the flight, there were hot towels pre and post each meal, which were a levelly addition, which reflects Oman Air’s intricate but perfectly formed service concept.

In conclusion

Oman Air Business Class is one of the world’s leading products, sure it’s easier to be able to provide a more personal attentive product when the cabins feature just 24 seats, but its this smaller boutique approach that it the airline’s winning formula. The hard product is hard to beat, with spacious, non-restrictive seats, long comfortable beds and privacy. But it’s the dining and soft product that makes this airline one of the top carriers when it comes to selecting a one-stop carrier through the Middle East. It’s hard to fault the product, and with business class being this good, it does question whether you’d ever need to pay for First Class, but then again, if you have the money…. why not.

The Big Picture

  Trip Report: OmanAir B787-9 Business Class March 2019 impresses with a virtually faultless product Flight: WY103 Aircraft Type: 787-9 Class: Business Class Route: MCT-LHR Date: March 2019 www.omanair.com After our outbound trip in…

[asrarblog]

Dear Colleagues!  This is Pharma Veterans Blog Post #285. Pharma Veterans shares the wealth of knowledge and wisdom of Veterans for the benefit of Community at large. Pharma Veterans Blog is published by Asrar Qureshi on WordPress, the top blog site. If you wish to share your stories, ideas and thoughts, please email to asrar@asrarqureshi.com for publishing your contributions here.

Continued from Previous……

Pharma Industry is like any other industry; like private hospitals, private medical colleges and private education. It is ‘for-Profit’. The serving of humanity myth was always a myth. Big Pharma of the world have been implicated in undesirable activities and have been prosecuted and fined as well. This is a large topic which may be taken separately.

Pakistan, India and Bangladesh have highly developed, robust Pharma Industry. So do Iran and Turkey. Afghanistan is almost entirely dependent on import as the local industry is insignificant. Major exporting partners to Afghanistan are Pakistan, India and Iran.

India

India has over 20,000 Pharma companies; about 80% manufacture finished drugs, about 20% manufacture basic materials. The Indian domestic market is valued at about 19 Billion USD; Pakistan is now less than 3 Billion USD, after currency devaluation.

India is the largest provider of generic drugs across the world, including US, Europe and other developed countries. Largest share of US generic market is captured by Indian products. The export of bulk drugs, finished drugs, biological drugs, alternative drugs and surgical goods also reached 19 billion USD in 2018. Growth trend is strong.

Iran

Iran has around 90 manufacturing companies with a turnover of about 3 billion USD. Iran has consistently faced challenges of sanctions. Though there were no sanctions directly on Pharma industry, but the import/export remains a tough challenge due to sanctions on the banking sector. Iran has made itself self-sufficient to the tune of 97%. With the help of the Iran government, couple of companies are producing biological products which are still not produced in Pakistan.

Turkey

Turkey has over 300 manufacturing companies and a market size of about 3.5 Billion USD. The market used to be 90% MNCs and 10% Local Pharma; currently it is 66% MNCs and 34% Local Pharma. The local industry has shown robust growth. More importantly, Turkey exports pharmaceutical products to 144 countries including Europe, CIS, North Africa, and Middle East. Turkey is also producing biological and anti-cancer drugs.

Bangladesh

Bangladesh has about 250 registered Pharma manufacturing companies, all doing generic business. Estimated market size is close to 3 Billion USD. Exports from BD are to 79 countries and are significant. BD Pharma has as an edge over Pak Pharma in the fact that their leading companies have major approvals from USFDA, EU GMP, UK MHRA, TGA Australia and ANVISA Brazil.

Afghanistan

Until early 1970s, Afghanistan had some manufacturing units of MNCs. From the 1979 Soviet invasion till now, Afghanistan manufacturing industry has suffered badly. Trading activity has continued. Presently, Afghanistan has about 50 licensed manufacturing units. These are small units and are unable to compete in the market on prices because they have to import all active, inactive and even packaging components. Afghanistan is therefore dependent on import of medicines. MNCs are there of course. Other major imports come from Pakistan, Iran and India.

Pakistan Pharma Industry – Important Facts

Pharma manufacturing in Pakistan has been around since the inception of Pakistan. Almost all major MNCs, established their manufacturing units in Karachi. Notable exception was the American company Wyeth, which had a plant in Lahore. Much later Upjohn put up a plant in Islamabad.

Pakistani entrepreneurs started very small. They put up small manufacturing units and manufactured low price, bulk products which could be used by doctors in dispensing in their clinics. Over the years, some brands of cough syrups, tonics, anti-diarrheal, basic antibiotics also emerged. However, Local Pharma did not venture to bring generic versions of MNC brands, till 1980s when major shift started. Since then, generic versions of virtually all research brands are introduced by Local Pharma in routine. In fact, the top few companies compete with each other to bring the generic earlier. Because whosoever comes first, takes greater market share.

Today, Local Pharma claims 80% market share which translates into almost 400 billion rupees in a year. On this count, Local Pharma has done a great job for itself. The top companies are flushed with cash which they spend on expensive marketing campaigns.

Local Pharma has not reinvested into manufacturing generally to the extent that it should have or could have done. As a result, there is not a single Local Pharma company to have international regulatory approval from any of the known regulators; USFDA, UK MHRA, Australia TGA, EU GMP, or even PIC/s.

MoH earlier and DRAP later has utterly missed to steer the local industry in this direction while supporting it in many other ways. Even today, nothing significant is happening on this count.

Local Pharma industry was started by individuals and families. No large group ever entered in this business. During 1950s and 1960s, we heard a lot about 22 families ruling Pakistan business and economy. These included Saigols, Dawoods, Adamjees, Habibs and so on. None of them was interested in Pharma. Today, there are new economic powerhouses like Mansha group and textile tycoons, but they consider Pharma too small for them. To my knowledge, there are only two exceptions. English Biscuit/Shield group started Pharmevo in 1990s. The company had been doing well but appears to have slowed down lately. Few years ago, Ismail Industries (Candyland fame) established Hudson Pharma. They have focused on less crowded market areas, but they did not enter the market with any fanfare. In fact, it is almost a silent, unnoticeable launch. This fact has not boded well for the industry over the years.

Local Pharma entrepreneurs are a mix; some graduated from distribution business to manufacturing, some were into entirely different businesses and came to Pharma under the illusion of making quicker money, some started with cottage-type business and then shifted from residential to industrial areas, and some were pharmacists who considered it their natural calling to produce medicines. Later, some medical doctors also joined the bandwagon. This is perfectly fine because it is a usual trajectory of evolution in many countries. Pharma businessmen, however, have not taken well with the regulatory requirements. And have postponed execution on one or the other pretext. MoH/DRAP has also been generally lax in implementing it.

Local Pharma, with the exception of few, has not upgraded itself technically; both in equipment and human capital. It is more about will, rather than affordability.

Local Pharma has not established any real Research and Development center individually or collectively. The R&D in a typical generic Pharma company is limited to developing generic formulations based on research products formulation. No resources have been allocated for real R&D.

The onslaught of uncontrolled (now semi-controlled) alternative medicines has damaged the entire Pharma business. It brought a lot of new money which was not entirely legitimate and therefore brought corruption with it. Practically, all notable Local Pharma have a business division selling alternative medicines under various guises.

The summary is that Local Pharma has thrived and blossomed in volumes and money, and it has brought relief by providing economical generic versions of research brands. However, it has not upgraded itself from technological and regulatory perspective. Big money is coming to Big Local Pharma; the poorer cousins are trying to follow their richer idols by whatever means possible. After all, money makes the mare (and the mayors) go.

Continued……

The Case of ‘Ja’alee’ (spurious) Drugs – Pharma Industry in Pakistan and Neighboring Countries – Blog Post #285 by Asrar Qureshi Dear Colleagues!  This is Pharma Veterans Blog Post #285. Pharma Veterans shares the wealth of knowledge and wisdom of Veterans for the benefit of Community at large.

[biofunmy]

This Cross-Country Hike Took 5 Days. That’s Going the Long Way.

I stood on the edge of the border town in the shadow of a 12th-century castle high on a hill. I was sandwiched between the craggy peaks of 7,600-foot mountains in front of me, and 7,200-foot peaks behind me. The only sounds I heard were birds chirping. The rural village road I was standing on had nary a car.

What a great day to start a cross-country trek.

Telling friends beforehand, I couldn’t help suppress a sheepish smile. What country are you hiking across? they asked.

Liechtenstein.

O. K., Europe’s fourth-smallest country — behind Vatican City, Monaco and San Marino — is only 17 miles long and nine miles wide. It is one cattle farm bigger than Staten Island. You can drive its length in 25 minutes. A middle-aged person with a long-expired gym membership could walk across it in two days.

However, I wasn’t just walking across a country. I was walking across history.

This year marks Liechtenstein’s 300-year anniversary, and it is using its tricentennial to reintroduce itself to the world. As part of its yearlong festivities, the principality created a 46.6-mile trail traversing the country, crisscrossing through all 11 of its towns — count ‘em, 11 — partly on village roads but mostly on twisting and mountainous trails.

It’s called the Liechtenstein Trail and I was the country’s first guinea pig.

By the end of this month, trekkers will be able to download an app that shepherds them along the route and also describes 133 points of interest. When trekkers point their cellphones at one of these 133 spots, augmented reality will help them visualize how it appeared in history or why it is notable.

“Many people have only vague clichés about our small country,” Alois, Hereditary Prince of Liechtenstein, wrote in an email. “I hope that the anniversary will help the world get to know Liechtenstein better.”

Every summer, Prince Alois, 50, the eldest son of Prince Hans-Adam II, and the rest of the royal family give a party for the local townspeople at Vaduz Castle, the family’s official residence. Another party began Jan. 23, the date in 1719 when the communities of Vaduz and Schellenberg were purchased by Hans-Adam I and combined into the principality of Liechtenstein.

This is heady stuff for the population of 38,000. Wedged between Switzerland and Austria like a linchpin, Liechtenstein has no airport or military. It has two train stations, one hospital, one TV station and one radio station.

“Historically, this is the most important event in my life,” said Leander Schädler, 61, a Liechtensteiner historian and hiking guide, referring to the tricentennial.

Previously, Liechtenstein was best known for colorful postage stamps and for being a tax haven, until the country abolished its banking secrecy laws in 2009.

Less known are its 250 miles of hiking trails. I divided my trek into five days. I’m an experienced hiker, and I’ve backpacked trails from the Himalayas to the Andes. But I’ve never experienced hikes with such variety as Liechtenstein: mountains, forests, towns, farms, rivers — sometimes all in the same day.

Despite the trail having 1.24 miles (about 2,000 meters) in elevation gain, it’s intended for hikers at all levels of ability and experience. Trekkers who get tired can stop at the next town they come to and catch a public bus back to their hotel, as my girlfriend, Marina Pascucci, did on both of the two days she joined me. Nothing in Liechtenstein is far away from anything else.

Our base was the Hotel Turna in Malbun, Liechtenstein’s lone ski resort. It’s located in Liechtenstein’s southeast corner, only a 20-minute bus ride uphill from the capital of Vaduz. It’s well worth the trip for the mountain setting alone. The hotel features an outdoor hot tub, a sauna, steam room and indoor pool. The restaurant has a beautiful outdoor dining area with views of the ski lift and surrounding mountains. So did our room’s balcony. In October, the off season, the room was a relatively inexpensive 150 euros (or about $170) a night.

The Liechtenstein Trail officially opens May 26 when the app is scheduled to be ready. I, however, marched off feeling a bit naked using trail maps and my cellphone’s iffy GPS. On sunny October days in the high 60s, here’s what I found:

Day 1 — Balzers-Triesen-Triesenberg: 8.7 miles, 1,970 feet elevation gain, 5 hours, 15 minutes.

Marina and I took a bus from the hotel to Balzers and met Mr. Schädler on the banks of the Rhine. The first point of interest is the 12th-century Gutenberg castle, which Balzers bought from Austria in 1824 and eventually turned into a museum.

Balzers has bright white fences, vine-covered houses, a plethora of maple trees and a small creek. We walked on quiet streets then followed the Rhine until Triesen, Vaduz’s “suburb” to the south.

We headed east and steeply uphill. The trail to Triesenberg reaches an elevation of 2,952 feet and then passes beautiful green meadows; the dairy cows wear clanging bells. We turned onto a dirt service road that is conveniently blocked for all but foot traffic and mountain bikers.

We passed a small farm where alpacas and llamas grazed near an odd self-service souvenir shack selling everything from cheese to alpaca wool. You leave money in an open cash register overflowing with cash. Yes, Liechtensteiners are a law-abiding lot.

Between cuts in the trees one can see spectacular views of the Swiss Alps, including Sardona, imposing in its 10,000-foot splendor. Below are the tile roofs of Balzers and Thiesen peppering the landscape. Park benches are strategically placed at each vista overlooking this lightly trodden land.

All day we saw only five people, all joggers. We took a bus back to our hotel.

Day 2 — Triesenberg-Vaduz-Schaan: 9.3 miles, 1,970 feet elevation gain, 7 hours.

Triesenberg, the town at the highest elevation in Liechtenstein, rests on a mountain with brightly painted houses sporting vegetable gardens, private vineyards and flower boxes with purple, white and pink flowers.

Martin Knopfel, 44, a Liechtenstein native and hiker who designed the 46.6-mile anniversary course for Marketing Liechtenstein, a government agency, joined us on Day 2. The trail on this leg was mostly downhill but was no less beautiful. The main road snaking up from the valley has lookouts where I could see Triesen, church steeples, the Rhine and the Swiss Alps beyond.

The path descends steeply in the forest and past little farmhouses until we came across the day’s first point of interest: a rock. It looks ordinary, five meters long and four and a half meters wide (about 16 by 15 feet). However, it is 400 million years old, left over from a prehistoric glacier.

Farther along in the forest, the leaves had turned to yellow, orange, green and red. It isn’t Vermont, but add the view below of Vaduz and the Swiss town of Buchs and it would be hard to find a better view of fall colors in Europe.

We descended into a clearing, and there, looming before us, was Vaduz Castle. If a 12th-century castle can be unassuming, this one is. We passed the castle and dropped into downtown Vaduz, a small-town capital with a pedestrian mall lined with restaurants and shops that basically close down every night at 8.

I asked one of the locals what they do at night, and he said, “Go to Austria.”

However quiet it is at night, Vaduz also has the most points of interests of any town in the country. On the main road we walked by the Kunstmuseum, known for its modern and contemporary art, the Postal Museum, National Museum and yellow brick Parliament building.

We eventually climbed back into the forest and descended into Schaan, Liechtenstein’s largest city with 6,300 people. We stopped near the bus stop for a well-deserved beer. After two days of ascending nearly 4,000 feet, my legs felt the first signs of fatigue.

“I have journalists and they say, ‘Oh, I’m a hiker and all physical and we should go on all the tracks,’” Mr. Knopfel said. “Then they say, ‘Oh, I didn’t think Liechtenstein was so big.’

Day 3 — Schaan-Planken-Eschen: 10.6 miles, 820 feet elevation gain, 6 hours.

Mr. Schädler picked me up at the hotel and we drove to Schaan. He and I descended from the forest in Planken, a town of postcard-perfect houses that is, coincidentally, home to Hanni and Andreas Wenzel, the brother and sister skiers who won six of Liechtenstein’s 10 Winter Olympic medals from 1976 to 1984.

Day 3 also brought us face-to-face with one of the most important sites on the list of the 133 points of interest. In Planken, we came across the stone ruins of one of the four Roman villas, dating from 150 A.D., that had been constructed in what is now Liechtenstein. You could still see a large opening that had been the entrance to the villa and a smaller one that served a thermal bath complete with under-floor heating.

We continued onto mercifully flat ground into Eschen where Mr. Schädler left me at a bus stop. He said goodbye, and the navigation for the final two days would be up to my maps and my GPS.

I was on my own.

Day 4 — Eschen-Gamprin-Ruggell-Schellenberg: 11.2 miles, 1,640 feet elevation climb, 5.5 hours.

I hiked the steep, quiet residential streets of the otherwise industrial town of Eschen for an hour, not the best way to start the longest hike of the week. However, the sun was just coming up on a panorama of mountains, and that gave me an early second wind.

I dipped down into Gamprin, a tiny town on the Rhine, and followed the river into Ruggell.

From Ruggell, I walked across expansive farmland before ascending through a 100-foot canopy into a clearing. Here I saw Schellenberg’s claim to fame: the remains of another Roman villa, complete with a stone oven and views over Ruggell, the Rhine and the Swiss Alps.

One notable thing about the Liechtenstein Trail is that you don’t have to pack a lunch if you don’t want to. I mostly did, to cut costs, but with 11 towns along the path, you can drop your pack in any of them and sit down in a restaurant.

The classic Liechtensteiner eatery is Wirthschaft zum Lowen in Schellenberg. “Wirthschaft” means “restaurant” in Liechtenstein’s Alemannic dialect, which sounds like Swiss German but with the singsong sound of two “Fargo” actors speaking Norwegian. Lowen features the classic Liechtenstein dish, kasknopfle, a big pile of short noodles covered in two cheeses and shaved fried onions.

Day 5 — Schellenberg-Mauren: 6.8 miles, 820 feet elevation gain, 6 hours.

Rising early, I made my way to a point high above Schellenberg. At 9 a.m., as I climbed through farmland, a sea of clouds settled under the mountain peaks beyond. A velvet blanket formed the perfect backdrop for the small farmhouses in the fields.

I began double-timing it to the Austrian-Liechtenstein border and the trail’s end. However, my GPS failed me. I couldn’t match the GPS instructions with the maps I was carrying, and I had to ask directions in Mauren three times and backtrack twice. When I finally made it through a huge green field and across the week’s lone busy road, and then back into a forest, I couldn’t find the wooded trail I was looking for.

Fearing I’d miss my flight out of Zurich that night, I called Mr. Knopfel, who set me straight. However, I still took the wrong exit from the forest and when I reached the border, I was on the Austrian side.

So I ventured the 50 feet back into Liechtenstein, turned and snapped a photo of the border sign. I had reached the end of my cross-country expedition. Happy Birthday, Liechtenstein. You’ve aged quite gracefully!

Follow NY Times Travel on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. Get weekly updates from our Travel Dispatch newsletter, with tips on traveling smarter, destination coverage and photos from all over the world.

Sahred From Source link Travel

from WordPress http://bit.ly/2XaMxIe via IFTTT

[myindianproperties]

Residential Piramal Mahalaxmi Apartments in Mumbai

In the town of urban center getting associate abode could be a powerful task. tho’ there square measure endless comes within the town, availing one within the prime space is nothing but a chance. One such a chance goes to be provided by Piramal Mahalaxmi racecourse that is coming back with a residential project for the house seekers WHO need high normal living within the middle of this lovely town. The project is from the house of Piramal Properties that could be a leading assets player within the market. Here one will realize an incredible combination of a point the realm close with leaf and still possessing all the fashionable amenities of life.

 The price and alternative configurations of the Piramal Mahalaxmi project will be availed by the developers for the asking however because it is nonetheless to be launched clearly one will expect the project with best rates compared to alternative comes during this space. it’ll have homes with a pair of and three BHK flats wherever all the fashionable amenities are offered by the developers. better of the planning, marvelous design and ample natural lightweight within the home, moreover as cross ventilation for contemporary air, square measure a number of the good options of this project. The Piramal Mahalaxmi Project is in its pre-launch state and can be unfold on an enormous acreage of seven acres. because of the acreage, the project can have a large inexperienced layer wherever one will feel the contemporary air and funky breeze despite being within the middle of this monetary hub of the country.

 The Piramal property comes can have a building, associate amphitheater with the most recent instrumentation and a contemporary athletic facility. there’s provision for a improved garden, Barbecue, a pool and a cardio pulmonary exercise track moreover as yoga deck for people who like to keep their body and mind work. the placement of the project is that the ideal one for people who need to ramble round the town because of work or profession. The infrastructure of the realm is superb because it is one among the luxury areas of this international town and therefore one will realize nice property to any or all the areas of town via rail and road.

 Piramal Mahalaxmi is that the complete behind the landmark project in urban center. The developer has chosen the best location to make an ideal atmosphere appropriate for the fashionable families to decide on a home and live peacefully. Since the terribly starting, Piramal property has provided wonderful choices concerning residential properties to the house seekers. It will be with pride same that it’s catered the right dream homes along side happiness. All the comes square measure developed by the leading architects in Bharat. now conjointly, Piramal Mahalaxmi racecourse are a landmark development which will mechanically elevate the quality of living.

  Piramal property has come back up with the best location in Race Course, Mahalaxmi, Mumbai, for the event of the premises. Race Course is that the ideal location wherever one can realize an ideal mix of leaf and fashionable mode. The contemporary atmosphere with all the facilities can produce a perfect ambiance to measure during this place. the realm of the land non inheritable is seven acres. The land is encircled by inexperienced trees and pastures. The residents of Piramal raceway can realize ample respiratory organ house to breathe contemporary air.

 The Piramal Mahalaxmi location premises are developed within the best kind by the architects and engineers deployed by the house agent. The flats are of two BHK and three BHK variants. The residential towers are aligned in such how that every one the units are capable of enjoying ample ventilation throughout the year. the bulk of the house are reborn into a designer landscape. Ample automotive car parking zone, multi tier security, CCTV police work, power provide, etc are there for the convenience of the residents. Piramal Mahalaxmi Racecourse location are an ideal place for the fashionable families to measure in urban center.

 The Piramal Mahalaxmi location is well connected with the opposite elements of the tube town via the network of blood vessel roads and transits. it’ll be easier for the professionals and businessmen to commute to any leading location within the town with none problem. The residents also will realize international colleges, hospitals, malls, supermarkets, and alternative necessary facilities to steer everyday life simply.

   Booking Starts for best affordable Apartment Now for getting the details of piramal Mahalaxmi Prices. For free visit Call us at +919810047296 or visit us at http://www.piramalmahalaxmi.srkresidency.com/

[connorrenwick]

Where I Work: Greg Keffer of Rockwell Group

New York City based Greg Keffer is a Partner and Studio Leader at the award-winning Rockwell Group, where he heads numerous international hospitality, residential, retail, and office projects. In just six short years, Keffer has worked on various projects, like NeueHouse Hollywood, The Time Hotel (NY), Sky (NY), William Morris Endeavor | IMG (NY), and Station House (Washingon, DC). Currently he’s overseeing the new, much-anticipated Warner Music Group headquarters in downtown Los Angeles, as well as Nobu Downtown (NY), Hotel EMC2 (Chicago), W Madrid Hotel, Moxy Miami, Union Square Cafe (NY), MGM Cotai (Macau), and Battersea Power Station (London). In this month’s Where I Work, Keffer shows us around the Rockwell Group’s Union Square office and gives us insight into his work process.

What is your typical work style?

I work best when I am juggling multiple projects. I really enjoy the challenge of solving a variety of design issues at different scales and within various typologies simultaneously.

What’s your studio/work environment like?

Rockwell Group is organized into 7 studios, allowing the highly creative energy of our designers to be concentrated in smaller groups. Our studio is very focused, yet highly collaborative, and we encourage the cross-pollination of ideas within and between the groups. To encourage creativity among our designers, each studio works on a diverse array of projects. It’s a very supportive environment, but we also tend to throw more green designers into the deep end as I feel people grow when challenged. Its also not a hierarchical environment. For each project, the best idea wins regardless of the designer’s seniority or experience.

How is your space organized/arranged?

Our area is open, yet organized. We renovated our space two years ago, replacing cubicles with communal work tables. We also created a long open storage wall along one side to hold finishes and materials, and added shelving to display models, boards, and prototypes of current work. The new space has clear sight lines that encourage more verbal and visual communication. Every few months we do a seating shift. By having our designers rotate desks, it allows them to meet and work with different people within our studio and allow project teams to work more seamlessly together.

How long have you been in this space? Where did you work before that?

I’ve been at Rockwell Group for 6 years. Prior to joining the firm, I was a principal at STUDIOS Architecture. Rockwell Group has been located in the Springer building off of Union Square since the 1990s.

If you could change something about your workspace, what would it be?

We have a great space that reflects the culture of Rockwell Group. Every time a new client visits our studio they always comment that the creativity of the group is reflected in the vibrancy of the environment. There are 40 designers in our studio and we’re still growing. I would love to expand my area to accommodate additional collaboration tables, storage, places to lay out drawings, and interstitial spaces for impromptu meetings.

Is there an office pet?

Yes, we have several actually. I have a 9-year-old Springerdoodle named Daisy who loves visiting the office. Monkey, a Shih Tzu-Brussels Griffon mix, is a daily fixture in our studio. He probably has accrued many vacation days by now.

Do you require music in the background? If so, who are some favorites?

Playing background music is neither encouraged or discouraged, but we generally don’t play music in our area as it would prevent us from talking and collaborating with each other.

How do you record ideas?

I tend to email or text photos or screenshots to my teams – often in the middle of the night or while on one of my typical long haul flights.

Do you have an inspiration board? What’s on it right now?

I actually don’t have an inspiration board and feel that they aren’t really useful as its just a deposit of visuals that have no relevance to solving specific problems for a project. Rockwell Group doesn’t have a signature style and we’re reluctant to predict or follow trends, as they tend to go stale as soon as you identify them. For us, design is about expressing the client’s narrative so we tend to create project-specific boards and material boxes.

What is your creative process and/or creative workflow like? Does it change every project or do you keep it the same?

My creative process is different for every project. In some cases, I’ll pitch my team with a concept that they will transform into a fully realized narrative. In other cases, a team will conceive and develop multiple concepts which I then review and edit to focus in a particular direction.

What kind of art/design/objects might you have scattered about the space?

We have many mock-ups and prototypes around our area, including a 15-foot long version of the brushstroke sculpture that we designed for Nobu Downtown.

Are there tools and/or machinery in your space?

Our studio is very fortunate to have a great in-house model shop and a skilled team of model makers. The model shop, along with the LAB (Rockwell Group’s technology studio), and our material library, allow us as designers to investigate, experiment, and come up with unique solutions.

What tool(s) do you most enjoy using in the design process?

Our communal work tables.

Let’s talk about how you’re wired. Tell us about your tech arsenal/devices.

The LAB, Rockwell Group’s design innovation studio, represents our strong commitment to explore and experiment with integrating technology into architecture. My studio has collaborated with the LAB on several projects, including LCD kaleidoscopes in the lobby of 605 Third Avenue (an office tower in midtown Manhattan) and a digital installation in the dining room of Nobu Downtown. These installations have been hugely successful in reinforcing the larger narrative and solutions for these projects.

What design software do you use, if any, and for what?

I wish I had more time to personally hunker down at the computer and use software in my design process, but I do still occasionally use Sketchup and you will often find me jumping onto the mouse to make edits as a designer is showing me progress. I also love to get into our InDesign presentations and make final tweaks before it goes out.

Is there a favorite project/piece you’ve worked on?

Daily Provisions, a 10-seat, neighborhood café-shop hybrid located in a tiny alcove on East 19th Street in Manhattan. The project provided us with an opportunity to work on an entirely new concept with Danny Meyer within the context of its larger sibling, Union Square Cafe.

Do you feel like you’ve “made it”? What has made you feel like you’ve become successful? At what moment/circumstances? Or what will it take to get there?

I hope not! I’m not sure if that should ever be a goal. But seeing young designers in my studio grow and evolve—and creating an environment that allows them to develop as designers—makes me feel like I’ve succeeded to some extent.

Tell us about a current project you’re working on. What was the inspiration behind it?

We’re designing the new headquarters for Warner Music Group in Los Angeles. The new offices will be located in a former Ford Motor Company factory and Model T showroom, so the building’s history, in part, will be a source of inspiration. And needless to say, the breadth of Warner Music’s history and artists is so exciting to tap into as we explore design solutions.

What’s on your desk right now?

Nothing! I want my desk to be open and accessible and I’m kind of a clean freak. It’s also a place where my teams meet with me constantly.

Do you have anything in your home that you’ve designed/created?

My weekend home upstate. I renovated an old farm house in New York’s Hudson Valley with my husband. It was a great project we started 6 years ago, and of course it’s one of those things that you never really finish. It has a nice balance of old and new, something that I’ve always been drawn to in making a place that feels comfortable.

Photos by Chaunté Vaughn.

via http://design-milk.com/

from WordPress https://connorrenwickblog.wordpress.com/2017/11/21/where-i-work-greg-keffer-of-rockwell-group/

[gessvhowarth]

What It's Like To Live In London's Little Portugal

Vauxhall is better-known as the site of the MI6 headquarters, rather than its vibrant Portuguese community. Photo: Rob Fahey. Exit Vauxhall tube station and you're confronted with the orange high-vis jackets of TfL's workforce digging up the roads and re-laying the road around Vauxhall Cross. But negotiate the roaring traffic you'll emerge onto South Lambeth Road where there's respite among the Portuguese restaurants, hairdressers and delicatessens which have gathered here over the last 30 years, earning the area its nickname 'Little Portugal'. As we wander from Vauxhall to Stockwell, a rumble of laughter erupts from Portugal Café and Tapas Bar, where a group of middle-aged men are dining. Locals can be heard conversing in their mother tongue — the area is popular among African, Latin American and other Portuguese speakers. This country gave me everything. Portugal hasn't given anything to me. That's why I stay here. - Antonio Lopes But casting a shadow over this tight-knit community are cranes and scaffolding, which signify the arrival of luxury apartments, including what will be the UK's tallest residential brick tower. Like a lot of London, this is an area in flux. It concerns a community that rarely gets a mention in mainstream media and is hardly referenced in London's narrative beyond the popularity of Nando's and its famed peri peri chicken. Antonio Lopes, owner of Fumeiro, a small restaurant attached to a store selling authentic Portuguese goods says he feels torn between his English and Portuguese identity. "When I watch football and England are playing against Portugal — always I'm half and half, believe me," he says. "I like England to win as well, you know — because this country gave me everything. Portugal hasn't given anything to me. That's why I stay here." But making a new life in London hasn’t been easy; Lopes went through a divorce and suffered a stroke he attributes to the stress of a seven-day working week. When he arrived in the area 30 years ago there was only one Portuguese restaurant, on a street lined with dilapidated shops. O Fumeiro at 52-54 Wilcox Rd, Vauxhall. Photo: Google Maps As we talk over a counter laden with bolo rei — a Portuguese crown-shaped Christmas cake encrusted with colourful, dried fruit — Lopes continues to serve a regular stream of customers who mouth their 'obrigados' and 'tchaus' before departing. There are over 35,000 Portuguese speakers living in Lambeth alone, making it the second-most spoken language in the borough. When you live outside your home country, there is often a deep desire to stay connected to your roots, to your language and to your culture. - Catarina Demony Lambeth attracts young people of working age from the UK and abroad, particularly those countries severely affected by the Eurozone crisis. With this influx of new arrivals in search of employment, it's little wonder so many of the older generation voted for Brexit. 51% of the population is aged between 20 and 44 — around 163,000 people — while 28% are aged between 25 and 34. But it's the latter group who are increasingly defining the character of the area. Catarina Demony is a switched-on 23-year-old and co-director of Little Portugal, a website for collecting and disseminating the stories of people living and working in the borough, which launched as a reaction to the outcome of the EU referendum and the sharp increase in hate crimes against minority groups. Catarina interviewing Natasha, a young Portuguese woman working in a radio station in Lambeth for Little Portugal. Photo: Ana Có (2016) Demony agrees that Portuguese stories are underrepresented in the media and in narratives about London generally. "To be completely honest, I think there are still some stereotypes about what a Portuguese person looks like, and what a Portuguese person does," she says. "Back in the 60s and 70s, when Portuguese immigrants first arrived in London escaping an authoritarian government, they were looking for a better life. Jobs in construction work or cleaning were common. Even though some Portuguese people still work in those industries, the community has progressed, and now London is also home to Portuguese-speaking CEOs, activists, politicians and businesspeople." The website provides a space for their stories. Originally from Lisbon, Demony moved to London in 2011. She says: "When you live outside your home country, there is often a deep desire to stay connected to your roots, to your language and to your culture. And this was our way to do it." Similarly, despite his admission that Portugal gave him nothing, Lopes doesn't want his children to lose touch with their Portuguese heritage, shelling out a small fortune on Portuguese language tuition for them. Mount Anvil is building the UK's largest residential brick tower block on South Lambeth Road The future of this community is uncertain. Hoardings that read 'Move up in the world' and '#VauxhallVibes' line this stretch of road, promising an aspirational lifestyle inaccessible to most who already live here. Once upon a time Vauxhall's vibe was rooted in working-class culture; when the Lambeth Walk, a song taken from the 1937 musical Me and My Girl, inspired a dance craze recognised around Europe as the exaggerated way a cockney struts. (See 1939 version below). Now the street market of Lambeth Walk Road, the heart of Cockney London has gone and #VauxhallVibes is another way of advertising a club lounge, spa, pool, gymnasium and 24-hour concierge. Mount Anvil, the developer who made a tidy £25m profit in 2015, is building towering apartments in an area where lack of affordable housing means 55% of homeless households are placed in temporary accommodation outside of the borough. Lopes is worried about the impact of development and the new Nine Elms tube station on his business. "The people who buy these flats are not me or you — it's people who have a lot of money to spend. Maybe it will be better for me, maybe not. If the rent gets too expensive then the Portuguese community will go away from here, believe me." But not back to Portugal. "Maybe they will move out to the Norwood or Croydon area because it's cheaper to live over there," Lopes says. According to the Lambeth State of the borough 2016 report: “Vauxhall is the gateway to one of Europe’s largest regeneration zones, with 25,000 new jobs and 20,000 new homes coming to the Vauxhall, Nine Elms and Battersea area.” Source: Nine Elms London Demony echoes Lopes's sentiments, explaining how when Portuguese immigrants first arrived in London in they were concentrated in areas such as Notting Hill. "But gentrification rapidly made that area way too expensive," she says, "so they moved to Lambeth, particularly to Stockwell. But now history is repeating itself. Lambeth is becoming more and more expensive, and the Portuguese community (as well as other immigrant communities) is being pushed out to areas like Croydon." Rent in Lambeth has risen by 31% since 2011. In 2015, you would need a salary of £70,000 to afford a house in a borough where the average income is £45,000. Jose Rodrigues owns Grelha D'Ouro with his partner Sandra Pranto. Photo: Kyra Hanson (2016) However, Jose Rodrigues, who owns Grelha D'Ouro with his partner Sandra Pranto, is more optimistic about the changes. Portuguese pop music blares from the multiple television screens; it's Monday and so far we're the only customer. In five years, says Rodrigues, the restaurant's rent has gone up by £9,000. Does he worry about new development pushing people out? "No," he replies. "It's going to be better for this area because it will be busier than before. "Of course, everything is going to be more expensive, and the rent is going to be high, but I think people moving here will use the local restaurants. Of course, high rent means I must put the prices up a little bit. But I think I will survive because we've always had regular customers." We communicate through Sandra, who translates our questions and her husband's answers. It becomes apparent that many first-generation immigrants still struggle with English, often the first diagnosis of a closed community. However, the government is funding an Anglo-Portuguese bilingual school, which is due to open in 2018. Equally it's a community eager to share its food and vibrant culture — in very generous portions, if you show an interest. Casa Madeira The best time to experience this community's hospitality is at the weekend — as long as you book in advance. Last Saturday all generations came together under the railway arches at Casa Madeira to eat, dance and enjoy each other's company. Couples swayed to singer and keyboardist Sergio Campos, and by the end of the night the dance floor was a writhing throng of sequins, lace dresses, antlers and racy Santa outfits. Even the teenagers were up on their feet – albeit while clutching their mobile phones. A typical Saturday night at Casa Madeira. Photo: Kyra Hanson (2016) We hadn't arranged to meet, but by chance, manager Antonio Luis recognised us at the bar and began telling me about Madeira Patisserie over drinks he insisted on paying for. "Madeira London is one of the biggest sellers of the pastel de nata, on average producing 20,000 per day which are sold for retail and wholesale." His family established the café here in 1988, when the railway arches were mostly occupied by car repairers and garages. Now the business encompasses a restaurant, bar, shop and a couple of cafés. South Lambeth Road and Albert Embankment haven't yet been homogenised by the Prets and Costas that have spread like wildfire elsewhere. (Thankfully: Portuguese coffee is much nicer.) During our visit, staff recommended speaking to their friends, who were more often than not former employers; Antonio Lopes worked in Luis Delhi for 15 years before opening Fumeiro; Jose Rodrigues was a chef for four years at A Toca on Wandsworth Road before taking over Grelha D'Ouro, and so on. This gives the place a warmth and friendliness that only exists among a community with deep-seated connections to each other and the area. Long may Little Portugal remain. Follow@LPortugalLondon on Twitter.

http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/londonist/sBMe/~3/OKosbaFfXk0/what-it-s-like-to-live-in-london-s-little-portugal