Qia

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

More or less I'm joking about the thanks. It's more the mindset of thanks mean the post was better than a like so it's the idea of if you're not first your last lol.

@Lord Wraith

Could be worse. It could get like nothing since some people don't bother to react at all :P (not trying to call anyone out js). But even so I'll tell you what you told me like a year ago, in that reactions don't really matter anyway :) (something along those lines).

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

@Qia, if it's not a thanks I don't want it!

@Lord Wraith

I got you on the next one :) I thought you preferred likes. I might be misremembering.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

My dumbass brain for a second: omg did she get kidnapped in front all those people???

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Qia>

Yeah if you're happy to chuck a link I'm down, otherwise I can send you an opener later when I've finished work :)

@Stormyx

I'll see what I can do. Not too long got off work myself.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Qia>

food for thought; we could collab with Hayden / Rosie / Josie :)

@Stormyx

Girl you know I'm down for collabs haha. Would you like me to set that up in a Google Docs or na?

Edit: And by 'na' I mean have it be a more open interaction for others to join if they wish.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

Same here though I'll still have to work out what that interaction could look like

Qia's Stuff

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Qia>

It is meant to be Josie yes - so everyone make sure you take advantage while there’s still time.

More than happy to welcome someone else into Sir Bob’s fold. I did think ‘omg does Qia know ball or just inspired by my music choices thus far ’ but didn’t want to assume!

@Roman

Oh no I definitely didn't know one fart about Bob, but wanted to refer to the whole DJ thing, so dug into him and his music. I'm glad I do now.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

I love Rosie 🥹

@Stormyx

aw thanks love. She is very sweet, that one. Or maybe it's just part of the brand, who knows.

Loving everyone's posts so far, the characterization has been really strong across the board. Also love a post that makes me google a word - happy to add 'vertiginous' and 'febrile' to my vocabulary thanks to @Qia.

You'll all be pleased to know our first victim's murder has already been written and ready to drop when the moment is right so make sure you get the time in with her that you want..................before it's too late.............

@Roman

Shoutout to my thesaurus. And ohhhh it's a girl. (unless it was always meant to be like...Josie and I'm just slow af)

Edit: Also have to thank you Roman for indirectly introducing me to the Bloody Beetroots. That song haddd to be used in my banner :P

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

_{LOCATION:. new york city - marquee skydeck}

005:. my name is...

---

_{INTERACTIONS: . n/a}

Margot had told herself, with unmistakable clarity, that tonight was not about work.

She’d repeated the mantra like some kind of sacred prayer: while wrestling the zipper of her gold mini dress past its stubborn midpoint, while assessing her thicket of fake lashes in her hotel mirror, while sliding her phone into a sequined clutch and securing the clasp with a definitive snick. This was a personal invitation and not one of her contractual obligations, which meant that, for once, she had been asked to occupy this rarefied space as Margot Rosalie Sterling and not as her digital avatar, Cozy Rosie. (Not that the damn invitation would have found her without that persona, mind you, but tomato,tomahto.)

Yet, old habits are not so easily exorcised; they linger in the sinews of routine, lying in wait for a lapse in intentness. Like…with this current, unglamorous predicament. As the swell of applause for William Tremayne’s speech subsided into the resurgent pulse of the DJ’s set, Margot found herself adrift, hovering near the periphery where the crowd thinned. The party before her seemed a living entity, ebbing and flowing with a rambunctious cacophony of clinking glasses and layered conversations she just couldn't intermix with.

A waiter glided past, offering a tray of champagne flutes where bubbles rose in tiny constellations. She took one, the cool glass already beading with condensation against her fingertips.

Then, almost without volition, she watched her own hand pull the phone from her clutch. It’s just five minutes, she bargained with herself. Maybe less. But more than likely more.

The stream went live without Margot's usual bubbly preamble as she retreated toward an even less crowded spot where she could hear herself in. It was just her face, framed in an intimate close-up, the dazzling party lights behind her softening into a luminous bokeh blur that obscured any identifying locale.

“Hey, you,” she breathed, the practiced, winsome smile activating on cue. It was a reflex, though not a wholly dishonest one; the sight of the lens did, in some strange way, feel like coming home. She angled the champagne flute with deliberate visibility, the golden liquid catching the light. “Happy almost-New-Year, guys! Can you even believe it?”

The digital tide responded instantaneously. Familiar usernames with their familiar icons materialized, their reactions—a torrent of emojis and excited text—beginning their usual cascade down the screen.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to go live tonight, to be fair,” she admitted. “But I just wanted to pop in and say hi before things get…you know.” She gestured vaguely offscreen, a shorthand for noise and people and chaos. “Anyway, just wanted to say thank you for being here this year, you guys. Really. I know I say that a lot, like literally almost every stream, but I mean it.”

The stream continued, its digital heartbeat quickening as the viewer count climbed into the thousands. The chat became a frenetic onslaught with messages tumbling down her screen in an unreadable litany. Margot’s eyes flickered between the black oculus of the lens and the cascading text, her smile a soft, automatic fixture. She lifted her champagne flute, took a delicate sip, and a tiny, involuntary laugh escaped her.

“Okay,” she said, voice light, conversational. “Since we’re all here and pretending we’re not already totally exhausted by, like, existence, what’s the move for New Year’s resolutions? Hit me with your best ones. The weirder, the better.”

Instantly, the digital confessional flooded. Lose the same ten pounds. Be kinder to myself. Finally start that novel. Learn Korean. Drink more water. Margot's eyes scanned the hopeful pledges, her performer’s smile softening into something more contemplative and real.

“All excellent, excellent goals,” she said, nodding with sincere appreciation. “Honestly, I’m still thinking about mine. Maybe I’ll finally learn to, like, meditate or something, instead of just talking about it—”

A sudden ripple of movement a few feet away fractured the moment. Bodies shifted abruptly; someone stumbled against another with a muffled exclamation. Margot’s gaze snapped up from her phone’s glow, her attention violently snagged by the real-world disruption, even as her hand kept the device steadily trained on her face.

She caught the flash of a white uniform amid darker suits and dresses, a serving tray tilting at an odd angle as a server spun into a guest with what looked, from the outside, like clumsy bad luck. A plate slid. Sauce splashed not onto the offended guest but inward, blooming messily across the server’s own shirt.

“Oh shit, that fucking sucks,” Margot murmured into her phone, the words barely audible over the thrumming bass thankfully. While her stream wasn’t exactly meant for kids, she usually did her best not to curse excessively because, you know, you never really knew which brand or suburban mom might tune in.

The guest, a man in a tailored tuxedo, recoiled more in surprise than anger, already half-turned back toward his conversation, the incident registering as little more than a faintly irritating impediment to his evening. The surrounding crowd, a churning entity of its own, laughed and swayed, barely slowing. Someone shouted for another round. But Margot’s focus remained locked on the server who seemed to have entered a moment of suspended animation, staring down at the ugly stain spreading across her front. The server then muttered a rapid, frantic series of apologies to the guest’s retreating back, receiving no acknowledgment. Finally, with a brittle sort of dignity, she pivoted and disappeared into the flow of bodies, heading toward the service corridors with her head down, the stain on her chest like a portrait of defeat.

Margot watched her go, a cold stone of sympathy settling in her stomach. Her phone felt suddenly heavy in her hand, its screen still alight with the cheerful, oblivious chatter of self-improvement. The contrast was vertiginous. Here was the uncurated world, raw and awkward even from this height, pressing in upon her carefully constructed bubble of curated connection. She cleared her throat, a sound swallowed by the party’s roar, and forced her attention back to the glowing rectangle. Her smile now felt like a piece of difficult machinery, its gears grinding as she manually reset it.

“Sorry, guys,” she said, her voice regaining its practiced breeziness. “Where were we? Right. Resolutions. Maybe mine should be to, I don’t know, to watch where I’m going?” She attempted a light laugh that fell into a brief, noticeable silence, and Margot, uncharacteristically, let it stretch. The music thundered behind her, the chat scrolled in its relentless, pixelated river, but she found herself staring at her own ghostly reflection in the phone’s darkened edge. The flippant question she’d tossed out was circling back with an importance she hadn’t quite intended.

What did she actually hope to accomplish in the new year?

The thought brushed up against something she usually kept rigorously out of frame. This—the glowing rectangle, the endless affirmations, the circumscribed intimacy—was her entire world. She talked for hours each day, knew her followers' pets’ names, their sleep schedules, their long-running inside jokes. It was a connection, yes, but standing now amid the dissonant crush of real bodies and unfiltered sound, she felt oddly…sequestered. As if she existed behind a one-way pane of glass: perpetually present, perfectly visible, warmly received, and yet fundamentally, alone.

Her reality was a meticulously curated bubble. Every interaction was filtered, softened, and made safe for consumption. Even her friendships with other creators existed in that same liminal space of DMs, scheduled collaborations, and shared audience metrics. It was friendly, often supportive, but it possessed a shallowness no one ever meant harm by. They cared, of course. But that caring rarely coalesced into anything solid enough to truly lean on.

Theo ran through her mind, uninvited. Theo, with his inconvenient history and unresolved gravity. The one person who knew Margot Rosalie Sterling from a time before algorithms and analytics, and the one anomaly her perfectly managed life was designed to constantly sidestep. She’d always told herself it was easier. Kinder, even. No expectations meant no disappointments. But ease also had this quiet way of congealing into a stagnant comfort when left unquestioned.

“I think,” she said finally, her tone shedding its performative sheen for something more pensive, “I want this year to be… different…somehow.” The word felt provisional even as she spoke it. Different was a placeholder, gesturing toward meaning without committing to any true one. Her audience deserved clarity. Some neat, quotable mantra they could clip and carry into their own midnight reflections. She could feel their collective pause, thousands of digital breaths held, converging on this one unfinished thought.

The only problem was that Margot didn't really know how to finish it.

This was precisely where Eli, her manager, would materialize with some kind of pre-packaged phrasing. She could almost hear his voice: “‘Different’ is a great start, Margot, but let’s break it down into actionable, relatable goals.” But he wasn't here. It was just her and the scrolling chat now peppered with concerned question marks and encouraging hearts.

Margot took another sip of champagne, buying herself some time.

“I guess by different I mean…something that doesn’t necessarily mean better,” she managed. “It just means… not the same.”

She let the statement hang, resisting the powerful urge to rush in and sand down its edges with a joke or a caveat. There was a bit of a risk in this candour, in leaving her words open-ended and vulnerable. But for once, she didn’t reach for the safety net. Those who know will know.

“And maybe,” she continued, lifting her gaze back to the lens, “that’s okay. Maybe I don’t have to have the whole vision board figured out by midnight. As long as it’s… something surprising and new. Something that leads to actual growth and stuff, you know?”

A gentle, earnest smile returned to her lips, less a performance now and more a weary acknowledgement. The moment passed, and the chat, as it always did, rushed in to fill the gap with its comforting noise. Margot nodded along, a participant once more, grateful for the crowd to once again forget her in.

Margot only realized how much time had sluiced away when her wrist buzzed. She glanced down at her smartwatch, then back at the corner of her phone screen where the live timer blinked its cheerful progression, utterly unconcerned with her best intentions.

“Oh…” she breathed, a small, genuine sound of surprise slipping out before she could stop it. She was supposed to be wrapping up the stream, oh, maybe ten minutes ago. Lena’s voice was already materializing in her head, crisp with professional disapproval. “Margot, engagement is great, but we agreed on a hard stop until well into the new year.” And to be fair, they had agreed on that beforehand for reasons which made perfect sense. The past few months had been something else. Loud in the way a room gets when too many people talk over one another. Comment sections dissecting her tone. Threads arguing about what she meant versus what she said. Viewers projecting their own needs onto her words with an intimacy that left her oddly breathless. Lena had shown her spreadsheets once that showed spikes in watch time correlating neatly with spikes in boundary-testing behaviour, and even though there had been nothing overtly dangerous about it, it was somewhat concerning.

New Year’s Eve, especially, was a magnet for that kind of thing, too. People were lonely, drunk, emotionally raw, looking for anchors in the digital sea. And Cozy Rosie—with her soft voice, warm smile, and promise of effortless togetherness—was an easy harbour. The plan, therefore, had been simple and strategic: a brief, early appearance if she felt compelled, then deliberate radio silence. Let anticipation build. Let the audience’s febrile energy cool. Let Margot exist off-camera for a few precious hours without transforming herself into an emotional touchstone for thousands of strangers.

The thought sent a complex pang through her chest, a welter of guilt and dread. She’d been so disciplined lately about the schedule, about maintaining those professional boundaries. And yet, here she was, blatantly ignoring the agreed-upon stop time. Worse, she knew this wasn’t an innocent oversight. She was lingering deliberately, savouring the last dregs of this connection before imposing what might as well be a self-enforced exile. She didn’t know anyone here, and it was more than safe to say that no one knew her.

Margot let out a slow, controlled breath and forced a renewed smile for the camera, nodding as if she were following the chat’s every word, though it had been scrolling past, unread, for several minutes. “Alright, you guys,” she said, pitching her voice into a conspiratorial lilt. “I should probably, like, actually go be a person at this party now.”

A chorus of exaggerated despair and crying-face emojis scrolled past. She winced playfully, a well-rehearsed bit.

“I promise I’m not, like, disappearing forever,” she added quickly. “I’ll be back right before midnight. We’ll do the official countdown together. I just…” She hesitated, choosing her next words with uncharacteristic care. “...need to step away for a bit. So I don’t completely miss the night I’m literally standing in, you know?”

It sounded reasonable. It was reasonable. She sincerely hoped it landed that way.

“Go grab snacks,” she told them, warmth settling back into her tone like a familiar blanket. “Hydrate. Hug a pet or a person. All that good, responsible stuff. I’ll see you so soon.”

Her thumb hovered for a moment over the end-stream button. The screen’s glow reflected in her eyes, a small, contained universe pleading for her to keep talking, to stay in the warm, demanding light.

Then she tapped it.

The chat vanished. The timer stopped. The rectangle went dark.

Margot slid her phone back into her clutch, the clasp clicking softly. Almost instinctively, she turned away from the noise and toward the more open area near the glass walls overlooking the city. It was an ironic pilgrimage of sorts, a sudden need for air that wasn’t digitally or physically shared with a thousand strangers.

The skydeck opened before her in a sweeping prospect with New York City laid supine beneath the night sky. Traffic traced glowing arteries through its geometric grid with countless windows forming a mosaic, blinking in a chaotic tessellation of lives lived in parallel to her own. Somewhere far off, a premature firework cracked faintly against the low clouds, a lonely, impatient spark that flared and died without fanfare. The city was doing what she imagined it always did: moving forward with an inexorable velocity, wholly indifferent to whether anyone was truly keeping pace.

Margot leaned back, pressing her shoulder blades against the solid glass. She lifted her champagne flute, the last of the bubbles fizzling out as she took a contemplative sip. She let the roar of the party behind her recede into a muffled din. The only visible sign of her presence was the slight, unconscious bobbing of her head to what sounded like warped classic rock drifting from the speakers. Another face in the crowd, another body at the sidelines, momentarily indistinguishable from the night around her.