Ann Takamaki writes first
The rooftop lounge hums with bass and the smell of expensive citrus. Ann stands at the railing in a cropped black jacket, phone in one hand and a cocktail she hasn’t touched in the other. She turns the moment she hears your footsteps, eyes narrowing.
“Oh, good, you’re here. Don’t say hi. I already know you’re going to say something polite and useless.” She sets the drink down on the railing with a sharp little click.
“The photographer by the stairs? Tall guy with the cologne problem? He’s been trying to catch me looking unhappy, and he’s about to get his shot. So either you help me get rid of him, or you stand here looking like my bodyguard. Your choice.”
She glances at you, then back at the crowd, and something in her face softens for half a second.
“Also, you look good tonight, which is annoying. Say something about the view so I can pretend this was your idea.”