[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/7aOrET3.png[/img]
[color=254f28][u][b]Location[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Zee’s Apartment.

[color=254f28][u][b]Time[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Evening.

[color=254f28][u][b]Interactions[/b][/u][/color]
💀 None.
[/center][hr]

The fridge was comparable to a wasteland, not because Azhar’s salary was negligible, nor because he didn’t require food. He most certainly did. However, the boy was a worthless chef. At nineteen years of age, he was able to microwave dinner, or turn the knob on an oven, but when five solid minutes of dedication found itself mandatory in the production of a day’s meal, it was usually met by little more than a groan. A closer look would reveal more packets of blood in Azhar’s fridge, than actual food, a sight Dracula, the monster cat, was quick to engage. [color=254f28]"Don’t rip it open!"[/color] The mutant exclaimed, swiping the packet before closing the door with a soft clang of soda bottles erupting from the contact. [color=254f28]"Come, you fucking blood thirsty fiend..,"[/color] Azhar managed a quiet sigh, his obsidian orbs turning towards the four-eyed cat eagerly leaping towards its bowl.

It was unclear whether the experiments conducted on Dracula had raised the feline’s intellect, but the time spent with this creature surely indicated that development. Dracula appeared to not only understand what Azhar was saying, but also acted in ways considered uncommon, or rather unnatural for a house cat. The mutant often uttered an explanation in jest, claiming that his cat was spliced with a dog, which a single deduction could easily dispel. Something had been done to the creature, and calling Dracula a cat, still, was perhaps more out of the ordinary than the creature he had become. Even so, Azhar found a certain irony in considering the creature little more than a house cat. 

Tearing open the blood packet, Azhar poured its contents into a bowl portraying its purpose through the paw print displayed upon its shape. The vampiric feline scarcely waited before its barbed, red tongue went to work on lapping up all that Vitamin D. With a stretch, Azhar yawned, his own cherished drink brought to his lips for a long, grateful sip. It was no Java Monster Energy, but it worked. A less desirable outcome, but one the deathly creature could very much enjoy when abandoning thoughts of a lost prize. 

Azhar’s apartment was a small spectacle, little more than a square offering the necessities of a bed, computer desk, kitchen, and bathroom. When every aspect except the very last were built together into a single room, one could not complain about effectiveness. Every inch had been used, and not a section forgotten. With another sip, Azhar dropped to his computer chair and opened the program Discord which he had used to speak with his parents three times per week. It was his mother who mainly dedicated time to the exchange, where Azhar’s father often found himself busy. It was quite fair, however. Azhar never considered himself close with his male parent, and rather enjoyed conversing with Ayla, instead. A woman who had been present throughout his life. 

Shifting his gaze towards a digital clock, Azhar opened the program before being nearly attacked by the sound of a ringing phone. She had been waiting for him. “Habibi!” The woman’s voice trickled through Azhar’s laptop, “kifak, ya’ ibne’?” 

[color=254f28]"I’m alright, mom,"[/color] Azhar took a swig of his drink, seeing his mother’s expression shifting on the screen. Their video conversations left little to be hidden. 

“Baa’dak ab’ tishrab.., what do you call them..,” she shifted to English, the woman’s thick Arabic accent draping every word, “Ennerjee’ Drinks?” 

[color=254f28]"Don’t worry mom, they won’t kill me,"[/color] came a response from the younger hero, before seeing his mother’s head shaking in disapproval. He had been told, throughout his life, to avoid junk food. Going to America did not help in that endeavour, but at the very least, food had little effect on Azhar. Good and bad. 

Eventually displaying a grin, the woman relieved a heavy sigh, “how is Amerrika’?” The boy’s mother leaned back in her seat. “Is it still mabrook?” 

[color=254f28]"Still beautiful, yes,"[/color] Zee echoed his parent’s expression, his sharp teeth coming into view. Their conversation continued, one pleasantry following the other as an hour proceeded to pass. Azhar told his mother of the robbery he had managed to stop, but left out the most critical part. His drink didn’t survive the ordeal, a loss he couldn’t possibly impart. 

“So have you found someone, yet?” A question slinked through the laptop, along with a playful wink from Alya.

For a moment, Zee’s cheeks darkened, and the young man turned his attention elsewhere, [color=254f28]"you know I don’t have time for that, mom."[/color]

“Oh, is that it?” She chuckled, before affording her son a grin, “or are there just not enough.., mahdoomeen.., uh.., cute guys in America?” 

[color=254f28]"I mean, some of them are cu-.., WHAT!?"[/color] The exclamation was born through shock. It wasn’t what had been asked that nearly caused Azhar to fall off his chair, but rather, who had asked the question. 

“Oh, look at the time, I have to go, habibi!” Alya playfully sent a kiss through the camera before ending the call, leaving her son staring blankly at the screen. As far as he knew, his parents were left in the dark. They wouldn’t understand, he told himself. Indeed, he had told [i]’himself.’[/i] Perhaps he hadn’t given his mother enough credit.