Luka has retreated back into the Garden after the events of the afternoon settled (as much as those particular events could be settled), brazenly turning tail and running away from Harsen Island and all its troubles. He needed a moment to breathe, he justifies to himself, though the knot in his stomach only twists tighter.

He's found himself back on that bench by the lake, unsure of where else to go. He's looking oddly pedestrian tonight - no makeup, minimal jewelry and a downright average attire. It's clear he dressed himself, and in a hurry. The few belongings he'd grabbed from his Craydon lodgings rest beside him: his old guitar and an uncharacteristically silent phone.

Luka's blankly laying across the length of the bench, facing upward toward the Garden's artificial night sky. He picks up his phone occasionally, sighing in frustration at the absolute lack of response from some of the few people he trusted enough to give his contact information to. It hurt being so powerless to explain himself, and with another sigh, he lets his phone fall from his hand into the gravel beneath.