"What the fuck do you mean, the model is dead?" Bana snapped into the phone, struggling to balance an oversized, professional black portfolio on his hip while juggling the cell and his very hot styrofoam cup of coffee. (He was going through his anti-sketchbook phase, as it were. His designs simply weren't good enough if they weren't to scale with a standard two story mansion blueprint.)

He was average in height but extremely lanky, and tended to wear skinny jeans and heeled or platform'd boots. He was also fond of snug-fitting undershirts and floppy jackets -- the look today was completed by a very bright blue scarf and his characteristically unruly (shock black) hair.

He took a sip of the hot liquid and cursed when he burned his tongue, pushing his way through the front doors. "No, I'm leaving the studio." He barked at the person on the other line, tossing his head. "And I guess we're just going to have to replace her. Get on the phone with somebody. I need a replacement, soon!" He whined, scaling the steps and getting into his car. "I'm gonna go eat breakfast. Of course I'm not done for the day. It's still early!"

A short period of time later, his better organized manager had found a couple of potential people, and a date was set for Bana and them to meet.

On that date, they were to meet in the little "studio" -- a small piece of space which contained a bar, a very large bathroom, and a lot of tables (equipped with sewing machines and plenty of drawers.) Bana leaned against the bar, staring towards the door with his manager-slash-secretary beside him, waiting for the models to show up.