You're a weapon ; and weapons don't weep
With the doors closed and the building empty, Boomslang had finally closed after yet another night of drinking and dancing, people grinding up against each other in their insatiable appetite for lust and fun while some drank themselves drunk in order to drown away the misery that was their nine-to-five jobs. It was easy to say that being a man with a history like his own, a criminal underworld of ne'er-do-wells and formidable allies and traitors, that he had a pretty good judgment of character and could read people better than most. It was a byproduct of his cynical personality, after all. But after opening and running Boomslang for quite some time now, he's run into characters ransacked with depression and regret, masking their problems behind some of his inexpensive but quality liquors or the amazing atmosphere he had created for them. It felt easier to identify people who were struggling with some sort of inner-war now that he was the owner of a bar and club, and yet for as much as he could estimate correctly about complete strangers who entered Boomslang, he's been thinking more about the people who weren't strangers in his life.
Iris and Aeluri had been with him for a long time now—ever since he inherited his mother's guild, if he recalled correctly. They hadn't been with him forever, but they were there through important parts of his journey. They shared his first (and last) drink with him when his life was crumbling apart, and over time, they became more than subordinates or colleagues, and just became his friends. Even Baird, who was only a recent addition to their clique, became a companion after only a short period of time with the group. And then there was Icarus, who was... a whole other situation, really. In short, they were dumbasses, but they were his dumbasses, although he'd never inflate their ego so much and tell them that to their face. Or in writing. Ever.
In any case, when he decided to move past the burden of the baggage of his guild and family, he realized how little he knew about the people he cared most about. As sappy and cheesy as it was, he felt a little guilty and self-absorbed for never wondering about it until now. His mind was clear of the weight of his past, and he wanted to replace those thoughts with something more informative. In a way, he wanted to repay them in a weird way.
. . . . . . . . .
"Huh?" Ahote squinted, gathering a rag, latex gloves, and a bottle of disinfectant in order to wipe down a table, but was left surprised to find the bottle suspiciously light. It was empty, of course, but he could've sworn he replaced it just recently. Maybe he was distracted with Icarus lately, and his thoughts were more cluttered than he realized. Well, no matter. There was more in the broom closet. He at least was rather diligent and meticulous about his inventory.
He donned one of his various appearances, this time with short, wavy dark hair and smooth, sensitive white skin. Regardless of which form he took on, he was simply an attractive man and always remained stoic-looking despite the change in looks. He was wearing a traditional bartending uniform with a white apron wrapped around his waist as he walked over to the back of the building, where the broom closet was.
When Ahote opened it up, it was no surprise that the closet had brooms, disinfectant bottles, among other cleaning supplies or items stored away for future use. He didn't think too hard about it, grabbing the first one he saw in the several that lined up next to one another on the middle shelf in the back of the closet. Nothing special, except...
Clink!
"?!"
"?!"
The disinfectant he was meaning to take didn't actually come off the shelf, sticking to it and instead triggering something. What it triggered was the opening of a secret door, where he could hear several small and complex mechanisms turning and clicking within the walls to reveal something quite... terrifying. Sex toys, handcuffs, ropes, questionably uncomfortable-looking chairs, a wall literally dedicated to whips and items that reminded him a lot of his own manhood, and a bed that easily looked like two king-sizes large. The room was candlelit and smelled like... he didn't know what it smelled like, but it looked a fucking sex dungeon.
Ahote's face was quite priceless, at this point. It wasn't anger or disgust, it was just wild disbelief and horror like he was still in the middle of processing the very existence of this room. He was so frozen with a shock that his hand hadn't even let go of the tactically placed disinfectant bottle as he stared into the candlelit room with a wide-eyed, scrunched-brow face. He was in such a horrifying limbo between shock and terror that he was trembling a little, but he finally managed to muster out a few words that accurately described his mental state at the moment.
"What in the actual fuck is—"