A Gangster Paradise

The streets were alive, a swirl of noise and color as Rowan made his way to the neighborhood gym where he worked as an instructor. He greeted a few of the vendors, waved at a group of street kids playing soccer, and finally ducked into the gymnasium. 

The gym was already buzzing with activity. A group of boys were practicing their drills, passing a basketball back and forth under the watchful eye of Rowan's assistant, Danny.

"Yo, Coach Rob!" Danny called, grinning as he approached. He was a wiry young man with too much energy and a mop of curly hair that refused to be tamed. "You're late."

"Barely," Rowan replied, dropping his bag on a bench. "Everything under control?"

Danny shrugged. "As much as it ever is. Jamie sprained his ankle again, and we've got a new kid who doesn't know a layup from a free throw."

Rowan chuckled. "All right, I'll sort them out. Go take five."

Danny handed him the clipboard, and Rowan stepped onto the court, clapping his hands to get the boys' attention. "All right, listen up! Drills aren't just for show. I need to see those passes tighter and those shots cleaner. Jamie, sit out and ice that ankle. New kid—" He turned to a gangly teenager hovering nervously near the sideline, "—what's your name?"

"Uh, Miguel," The boy stammered.

"Okay, Miguel. Get in line and watch how it's done. Everyone else, let's run it again," Rowan instructed.

As he coached, Rowan couldn't help but feel a sense of purpose. It was small, but it was real, and it kept him grounded. These kids came from the same rough streets he did, and he wanted to give them something to believe in.

The morning air was crisp as Rowan jogged toward the high school, the faint orange light of dawn casting long shadows on the cracked sidewalk. His steps were measured, and rhythmic, and a calming pattern helped him stay focused.

In this form, discipline was key. Muscle memory, his unbreakable will, and the ability to manipulate time, which he used sparingly.

He slowed as he approached the high school's iron gates, where students in uniforms trickled in, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and groggy expressions plastered on their faces.

Rowan put on his coach persona: approachable but firm, the kind of teacher students respected and maybe even liked.

"Morning, Coach Rob!" A couple of football players called, jogging over to slap his hand in greeting.

"Morning, boys," Rowan replied, offering a rare grin. "You'd better show up to practice on time today, or I'm making you run drills until you can't feel your legs."

They groaned but laughed, knowing he meant every word. As they hurried off, Rowan entered the gymnasium, where he oversaw the physical education classes. The room was a blend of scuffed hardwood floors and outdated equipment, but it served its purpose.

Rowan took a moment to scan the room, his senses sharper than any mortal could imagine. Even in this human guise, he could feel the life force of every person in the building, their heartbeats pulsing like tiny drums in the back of his mind.

By midday, he was in full coach mode. A group of students ran laps while others practiced archery on a makeshift range set up in the far corner of the gym. Archery had always been Rowan's favorite—so simple, yet elegant. He couldn't help but give a few pointers, demonstrating how to steady their breathing, and how to feel the tension of the bowstring as an extension of their own strength.

"Steady your aim, Alex," He told a lanky boy who was struggling to hold his bowstring. "Breathe in, count to three, then let the arrow fly."

Alex adjusted his grip, and this time, his arrow hit closer to the bullseye. The boy beamed, and Rowan patted his shoulder. "Much better. Keep practicing."

As the day progressed, Rowan kept his godly instincts on alert, though he masked it with a laid-back demeanor. He had learned long ago that danger rarely announced itself.

When the final bell rang, Rowan grabbed his duffel bag and prepared to head to his second job at the club.

He adjusted his stylish bartender's vest in the staff locker room, a deep burgundy piece with intricate black embroidery that paired with his tailored black slacks and sleek leather boots. A silver chain glinted faintly from his pocket, and he straightened the black silk tie he wore loosely over a crisp white shirt. The look wasn't just a uniform—it was part of his persona, an air of effortless charm that kept the tips flowing.

The club where he worked wasn't just any dive. It was a neon-drenched oasis on the edge of the district, where the cocktails were a little too expensive for the surroundings, and the clientele a mix of dreamers and drifters. The low hum of bass greeted him as he stepped through the back entrance, the air thick with the mingling scents of citrusy perfumes, spilled spirits, and faint traces of smoke.

Behind the marble bar, Mila was already setting up, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She wore a leather jacket over her shirt, the epitome of casual cool.

When she spotted him, she smirked.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Suave himself," She teased. "You sure you're here to bartend and not charm half the customers away?"

"Who says I can't do both?" Rowan replied with a crooked grin, grabbing his shaker from the shelf. "What's the cocktail special tonight? Please tell me it's something better than last week's disaster."

"Hey, you don't get to complain about the Spicy Mango Tango," Mila said, mock-offended. "It sold like crazy."

"Only because I sold it like crazy," He quipped, lining up glasses on the counter. "I deserve a cut of the royalties."

"Sure, I'll pay you in compliments," Mila shot back. "Now focus up. The boss wants us to push the Sapphire Glow tonight. He's calling it 'elevated indulgence.'"

Rowan groaned. "Elevated indulgence? Sounds like a pretentious way of saying overpriced vodka and tonic."

"Exactly," Mila laughed. "But hey, the tips should be good if you play your cards right."

The door chimed as the first group of patrons strolled in, their laughter already mixing with the music.

Rowan turned to greet them, his charismatic smile in place. "Welcome to Eden's Edge! What can I get started for you tonight?"

As the night picked up, he moved behind the bar like it was a stage, chatting effortlessly with customers while mixing drinks. Whether it was a classic Old Fashioned or one of the neon-colored club specials, he poured each with the finesse of someone who knew how to make an impression.

Mila watched him with an amused shake of her head.

"Keep this up, and you're going to need bodyguards to keep the admirers away," She said.

"Let me know when the applications open," He replied, winking.