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[center][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=Wyatt%20Rothenberg&name=Sweetly%20Broken.ttf&size=100&style_color=FFF6F0[/img]

[b]Location:[/b] [i]Seraphim Tattoos, The Bronx[/i]
[b]Interacting With:[/b] [i]Front Desk Guy & Tatiana Carrington[/i][/center]

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Everything in this place was intimidating, from the paint peeling off the wall in crackling strips, to the patrons who looked like they could murder someone with their bare hands. By all accounts, getting the hell out of here was probably the most logical thing to do, but as he said before, Wyatt was way, [i]waaay[/i] past the point of worrying, and this was [i]not[/i] his first rodeo - or so the saying went.

When the shouting started, he simply stood aside, watching the confrontation unfold with an impressive nonchalance , and maybe even a hint of amusement. The guy who was doing most of the shouting looked like the stereotypical biker, with his tattoos, leather vest, and steel-toed boots. He must’ve weighed close to three-hundred pounds, a solid chunk of fat and untoned muscle, but somehow, he still seemed to be losing the argument against his opponent; a fiery redhead who looked to be about a third of his size.

The woman’s accent was the first thing he noticed - Slavic, no doubt, though it was tinged with a little something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He almost contemplated stepping in, but eventually decided against it. She seemed like she had everything under control, and let’s face it, even if he [i]did[/i] intervene, he would probably just make things worse.

In the end, all he could do was take another pull from his cigarette, almost comically calm amidst the commotion. As he exhaled, thin, blue tendrils of smoke poured from the corners of his mouth, joining the already cloying scent of tobacco hanging heavy in the air. The whole argument seemed like it was coming to a head - at least until security came stomping out from behind a curtain to escort [i](read: strong-arm)[/i] biker guy out from the parlor.

All in all, it was a little anticlimactic, but it wasn’t as if he’d hoped for things to escalate into a barfight.

...Or maybe he had. Wyatt couldn’t be a hundred percent sure.

But he wasn’t able to dwell on that for long, because soon, he realised that the redhead was asking him a question.

“Wyatt. And I’m guessing you’re Tatiana...?”

To be honest, this wasn’t what he had been expecting. But really, he had no idea what he expected - well, apart from things heading south as soon as he stepped off the plane. Of all the scenarios that he’d dreamt up in his head, this was the least likely. It felt almost surreal that this was [i]actually[/i] working out for the better. Not that he was completely out of the woods yet. For all he knew, they were just waiting to murder him in the back alley.

But if there was anything Wyatt excelled at, it was bullshitting his way out of trouble.

“Pretty impressive, back there. Does this kind of thing happen often?” Wyatt nodded his head towards the door, from which the biker had been thrown out seconds earlier. His mouth was formed in an endearingly lopsided smirk, but as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the movement almost seemed to give away his unease.