hyperactive procrastinator

Your vision was blurry, your brain still slow on processing things. You thought you had seen Natasha, worrying towards you. You thought you had heard Wanda, hands resting on your cheeks, trying to get you to answer to something you couldn’t quite understand.

But you weren’t sure.

Red and blue lights flashed in your eyes.

You found yourself lying in a stretcher, an oxygen mask on your face. A paramedic stood beside you, checking for vitals. Someone had dragged you outside the building, ambulances and police cars surrounded the place.

You searched for something familiar, and it didn’t take you long to find it. Wanda must’ve noticed you moving, since it took her seconds to run towards you, a blanket draped over her shoulders, shrugging off the paramedic that was trying to check on her own health.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Your headache was gone, thankfully, but you still felt a little bit nauseous. A groan left your mouth when you tried to sit up, bringing a concerned expression into Wanda’s face.

“Easy, easy,” she helped you, hand resting on the small of your back.

“I’m fine,” your words sounded steadier than what you felt.

“You almost got blown up, it’s okay not to be fine,” your eyes locked with her green ones, their warmth giving you a sense of comfort.

She was about to say something else, but you caught sight of Natasha, and several questions popped into your mind. Questions you hoped the redhead would be capable of answering.

Rising to your feet was considerably easier than you expected, running past a worried Wanda, you rushed towards Natasha. As the woman landed her gaze on you, you instantly regretted getting up in the first place.

Rage, discontent, anger, those were all the feelings you could read, plastered across Romanoff’s face. You’d be lying if you said that a little bit of fear didn’t grow on the pit of your stomach.

Nonetheless, you continued with your head held high, determined to get the answers you were looking for.

“What the hell was that?” Were the first words to strike you. “Not only did you go behind my back and against my strict orders, but you put yourself and a civilian in great danger. Do you know the amount of paperwork that’s going to take? Have you any idea how mad my superiors are going to be?”

You stood quietly, letting her take out all of those pent up emotions on you, holding on a readless expression.

“You could’ve gotten seriously hurt,” her demeanor changed with these last words. A hint of worry crossed her eyes, and you faltered for a second, regretting your reckless actions.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, and she softened slightly, to your content, “and the hard drive?” You tried to change the subject.

“You shouldn’t be worrying about that, you should be resting.”

“Just tell me, what happened to the hard drive,” you pushed.

She let out a loud sigh, “destroyed, I doubt we’ll be able to get anything out of it.”

Now you were the one who couldn’t help the anger that boiled inside of you. Your hands balled into tight fists, knuckles going white from the pressure, jaw clenched painfully, chest rising and falling faster than would be considered normal.

Natasha noticed the signs, worried you were having some type of heart attack, until you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“FUCK,” you screamed at the top of lungs, landing a punch on the car parked beside you.

The surroundings were suddenly silent, and you were sure all eyes had fallen on you, but you didn’t care. Having your own eyes shut tight, trying to absorb the fact that you were so close, and yet, you failed.

The rest of the world was turned off as you searched your brain for anything. Any information, any clue, any glance at a document you might’ve missed during your rush. You replayed every second you spent inside that room, every window opened, every letter you laid your eyes on.

Just as you were about to lose it again, a hand rested on your shoulder. You were enveloped in a sea of green, she kept a steady breathing, guiding you to imitate her actions. It wasn’t long before you felt your body calm down, muscles lost their tenseness, worries were washed away.

“You need rest,” you wanted to protest, but you knew there was truth to her words.

“Okay,” you whispered, allowing her to guide you to the back of the ambulance, where you took a seat and a drink of water.

It was a while before things calmed down. Not only did your nerves subside, as you spent all your energy into clearing your thoughts, since it would be of no use reminiscing on them, but all the other policemen seemed to scatter as well.

The FBI agents you had brought there escorted all of the illegal drugs and weapons found on that truck, arresting all of the men responsible for attempting to move them. Local PD also made a short appearance, and soon everything was sorted out with the feds.

A bomb squad was called to take a look at the site, check if there were any more hidden explosives around the club, and also clear the air from any possible toxins originated from the explosion. It was a relief when they announced it was a homemade bomb, very simple, very effective, but not dangerous apart from the obvious.

Since you and Wanda were discharged, the paramedics also left the scene, leaving the both of you and your team behind. Natasha tried to offer you a ride home, but you denied profusely, thinking about the car, which you’d have to come after later.

The ride back was calm and peaceful. Natasha was adamant about taking you and Wanda home, so you managed to trick her into getting distracted with the other woman, while you slipped away from their sight. You needed to be alone with your thoughts, and you could trust the agent would make sure Wanda got home safely.

“Good morning, people,” you said cheerfully, making your way inside the office. The greeting was received with a bunch of unpleasant grunts. “Wow, what’s gotten you all so grumpy?”

“You might’ve had a good night of sleep, but we’ve been in here for hours questioning the men apprehended.”

“And you’re welcome for that, agent Barton,” he rolled his eyes at your statement.

“Dawson, good to see you around,” Romanoff walked into the room.

“Yeah, well, I’m still a little sore, but I’ll survive. How’s the interrogation going?”

She threw the papers she was holding on her desk. It would’ve been a sign of frustration if a proud smile wasn’t plastered across her face. They had made those people talk.

“We were able to apprehend several pounds of all kinds of drugs, some I’ve never even heard of,” she explained happily, “dozens of illegal weapons, EMRs, ring any bells?”

You scanned your mind for any recognition, “the gun used to kill Pietro,” you didn’t sound so certain of it, but she nodded, indicating you were correct, “do you think Gabriel Burns provided it to the killer?”

“Or he is the killer,” Barton responded.

“Burns is now our prime suspect, too bad he’s not an easy man to find,” your eyes went wide. Natasha Romanoff had just made a joke. It wasn’t exactly a joke, but she laughed like it was. You had never, in your seven months with the FBI, seen that woman utter a joke. Something about this bust was making her very happy.

“So what now?” The question made her change her posture. She was excited by the victory, but she had no idea how to proceed with the lack of leads. “None of them said anything useful?” You referred to the men they had sitting somewhere inside the bureau.

Silence took over. You had certainly killed the mood.

“They aren’t talking,” Barton spoke up first.

And yet again, silence reigned. It was discomforting how four trained agents were so desperate for a clue, a lead, anything. All of them avoided looking at you directly, pretending to busy themselves with something unimportant.

“What about that notebook?” Natasha tried to regain that excitement, but you gave her an apologetic look, and from that she was able to conclude she wouldn’t get access to it that easily.

“I think Wanda has it,” you explained before she jumped at your throat. She didn’t seem to take it so lightly, considering she did almost jump at you anyways.

“You left key evidence from an ongoing investigation with a civilian?” Her tone was harsh, causing you to gulp loudly. “And not any civilian, but the victim’s sister? Are you out of your mind?”

“Look, I almost got blown up last night, keeping track of evidence wasn’t particularly at the top of my list,” you spit back, not taking any of her shit, “plus, I trust Wanda, she wants to catch her brother’s killer as much as you do.”

Natasha let out a loud huff. The rest of the team remained silent, watching the interaction from the sides of their eyes. Sam had a look of pity directed towards you, which you despised, but was also thankful for the sympathy. Nonetheless, he did nothing to defend you.

Truthfully, you had the notebook safely tucked inside your jacket. You just didn’t want to hand it over to Romanoff, knowing damn well she wasn’t going to give it back.

The redhead sat back on her desk, hiding her face in her palms. Since no one else said anything, you thought it would be as good a moment as any to ease the room’s energy.

“Alright, you all seem to have some free time, how about you check out what I found,” that piqued their interest, “Banner” you handed him the pendrive, “Wilson,” the burner phone.

“What is this?” Bruce asked, analyzing the object you had given him.

“A pendrive,” you stated matter-of-factly, causing him to roll his eyes, “it contains everything I could download from the computer before the bomb went off, see if you can find anything useful,” you instructed.

He immediately attached it to his own computer, eager to see what information you had broughten. His excitement sent a wave of energy to the other agents in the room, although you couldn’t help but notice a hint of fear, of nervousness, pass through the man’s eyes.

“And Wilson,” you turned to the man with the other object you found, brushing off the earlier thought,, “I got that from the club as well, see if you can recover any of the messages or most recently dialed numbers on this phone.”

He nodded, already working on what you requested. Natasha and Clint, who didn’t have anything to work on right now, went out for coffee. You saw their exchange of glances while you distributed the objects, how they left without saying a word to each other, a mutual understanding, but decided not to comment on it.

You took the opportunity to sit back and relax. Being a private investigator, you weren’t given a desk of your own, so you would occupy whichever one was available. At this moment you had either Barton’s or Romanoff’s to explore.

Since you had pissed off the woman enough for the day, you decided to go with Barton. The agent had a troubled past, one you knew basically nothing about and didn’t have any interest in finding out. He managed to turn his life around, being now married with three beautiful children, he even kept a picture of them in his desk... classic.

There were things about himself he tried to conceal. His friendship with Romanoff started before she joined the FBI, and he envied her so much it was pathetic. The woman managed to grow inside the company faster than him, and was getting closer to becoming his boss every day. And he envied her for it.

Of course, he wished he was as respected and feared as she was, but there was just something about her that he would never manage to be. So he learned to live side by side with her, as equals. Truthfully they weren’t equals, it was clear to everyone that she was the one in charge of the investigation, but it was common courtesy to let him believe otherwise.

It wasn’t long before one of the men found something of interest, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“I think you’ll want to see this,” Wilson called, and ran to stand right behind him.

“What did you find?”

“Well, I couldn’t recover any texts,” you could see his computer screen was empty, “but I found the last number dialed,” he handed you a piece of paper with a number on it.

A bright smile appeared on your face, you were getting somewhere. You took out your own phone and typed in the numbers. The number rang for a few seconds until it went to voicemail, unfortunately the prerecorded message was the one offered by the phone company, not made by the owner.

“Can you trace the call?” You asked, trying to raise your expectations, when Romanoff entered the room with the answer you needed, and a not very pleased smile on her face.

“Dawson, why are you calling Mr Laufeyson?”

Of course, his phone was being kept in the evidence room while he was kept in the bureau for the 48 hours the law allowed. You exchanged looks with Wilson, an understanding of what needed to be done.

“Get him and Thor to the interrogation room, now!” You instructed, and he instantly rose from his chair.

“Why? You want to interrogate them again? Wasn’t all the mess you created last time enough?” Romanoff protested.

“The burner phone I found in Gabriel Burns’ office lastly dialed Loki’s number, which means they knew each other.”

“And what does Thor have to do with it?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” you added, leaving them behind.

Both men were seated side by side when you entered the room, cuffed to the table as a means to avoid physical confrontation. Otherwise, they were pretty calm, daggers being discreetly thrown at each other, Loki feeling slightly ashamed for letting his brother down, averting his gaze frequently, but calm.

You took a seat before them, Wilson already comfortable on the chair to the left. Determined not to waste anymore time, you went straight to the point.

“Do you guys know a Gabriel Burns?”

“No,” Thor responded, although it sounded more like a warning.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you let out a dry chuckle.

“Then why is it that he owned a phone through which he called Mr Laufeyson here,” you gestured towards the man, whose attention was elsewhere until that point.

“You have no proof of that,” the younger brother finally said.

“But I do, Mr Laufeyson, care to comment about that?”

“Okay, so he knew Gabriel Burns, that doesn’t prove anything,” the blond interrupted, placing a protective hand in front of the brunet as best as the cuffs permitted.

“Does it not? Would you like to listen to my theories?”

“Oh, great, more theories,” Loki’s tone was sarcastic, annoyed, one a person would use when they’re already fed up with something, “please, enlighten us, prove that we are guilty of a murder we didn’t commit.”

“Mr Laufeyson, I can only prove you’re guilty if you are, in fact, guilty.”

A little glint surpassed his eyes, a mischievous smile plastered on his lips. It was a direct challenge, and you were willing to take it.

“Mr Laufeyson, did Gabriel Burns know about the affair?” Thor didn’t like the implications, inhaling sharply, Loki didn’t look away.

“No,” his eyes, once steady, blinked rapidly when he answered. The action would have appeared normal to anyone else, but to you it was an indication of a lie.

“Fine, so he knew about the affair,” you pitched, pleased when Loki didn’t deny it, “he messaged you… a blackmail tactic, I assume. You didn’t want to do what he was requesting, but you couldn’t let the secret get to your brother, so you killed Pietro Maximoff inside his club as a warning.”

“And why Pietro? Why not kill Burns himself?”

“You tell me.”

He laughed loudly, relaxing his body against the chair, “that proves nothing.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t do it?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What about your brother?” The attention was shifted to the other man.

“What about me?”

“Did you kill Pietro Maximoff?”

“Look, lady, I’ve told you before, I did not, I have no reason for it.”

“Really?” You smirked. “Or have you known about the affair all along? And having it out in the open would be bad for business, so you killed Pietro to quiet Gabriel Burns. Am I wrong?”

“Great theory, yes,” he leaned forward, face inches from yours, “but you’re missing an important detail here, I have an alibi for the night of the murder, and so does my brother.”

You smiled, simply, “alright, thank you for your help. Stay around, as you are both now suspects in the investigation.”

You left the room, leaving Wilson to take them back to wherever they were being kept. Natasha caught you midway to the team’s office.

“You got nothing,” she stated, almost with a hint of pleasure from having you admit you failed. But you hadn’t failed.

“Did you notice how none of them questioned the connection between Pietro Maximoff and Gabriel Burns,” a hum of realization elicited from her throat, “that’s proof that there is a connection, and I guess that’s something, now we just have to find out what that is.”

She stopped on her tracks, dumbfounded. It was fun watching these people notice the things that appeared to be extremely obvious to you.

Banner was the only one left in the office, working on his computer to uncover the information you had given him. He landed his gaze on you, clumsily knocking off his coffee mug when you approached.

“Everything okay?” You asked with a frown, how an FBI agent could be so inept around important paperwork was beyond you.

“Yes, yes, it’s uhm, it’s fine, everything is fine,” he stuttered, trying to dry off the liquid that was quickly spreading, “I got the- got the- um, the information you were looking for,” you gave him a puzzled look, “from- from the pendrive,” he handed you a piece of paper.

It didn’t take too much for you to realize something was off with the information he gave you. The list, containing 13 different accounts that made transactions with L’Archange. A couple of names were from providers, all legal, mostly booze and services for the nightclub, nothing sexual or drug related you concluded from a first glance.

The others were from ghost companies based on the Cayman islands, or other bank accounts in Panama. All untraceable, all dead ends.

The three other agents returned to the room shortly, Clint finding a particular interest in the piece of paper you had in your hands. Noting his curiosity, you handed it to him.

“The accounts Banner managed to pull from the pendrive,” you explained even though he hadn’t asked.

He raked his eyes across all those names and numbers, nothing seemed to ring a bell for him. Natasha didn’t give the paper much thought when she noticed it in Barton’s hand, directing herself to you.

“I was just on the phone with Ms Maximoff, she says we’re clear to search her house for any leads.”

“Good luck,” you nodded, picking up your own phone to distract yourself with some games.

“She wants you to come,” the woman added with displeasure.

“Okay,” you stared at each other awkwardly, “lead the way,” the words shook her off of whatever daze she was in.

Banner excused himself to go to the bathroom, Natasha did as you told, Clint followed right behind, but you stopped Wilson before he could walk past you.

“Can you take a second look at the accounts, please?” You said, handing him the pendrive you had sneakily taken from Bruce’s desk. He took it, doubtful of the reasons behind your requests.

Being completely alone, you took out the notebook, showing him a page you had noticed that night, after you got home.

“The list Bruce gave us had 13 accounts, this page has listed 14 sources.” Some were countries, other services, but one was missing, in the USA nonetheless.

“Damn, you think he’s hiding something?”

“Probably, just take a look for me please,” his eyes followed the door through which the others had just left, “don’t worry, I’ll come up with some excuse,” you reassured him, making your way towards that same door.

“Just please don’t come up with anything related to stomach issues,” he joked.

“I can’t promise anything!”

The door was so tall it could easily fit a giraffe. It reminded you of the white house, a little bit, if it weren’t for the ivy growing on the wall in a way that made it seem planned, or the details in marble concerning the right side of this place.

Magnificent, dramatic. Made for someone who had a need to show their power, equal themselves to the most influential person in the country. Not at all where you’d picture Wanda Maximoff living in. Likely it was designed by her parents and she just couldn’t move out of it after their passing.

You watched, whilst leaning on the side of the vehicle, as she made her way down the front stairs. Black appeared to be the theme with her, a black dress hugging her figure perfectly. Her hips swayed from side to side, keeping you in an almost hypnotic state, until she reached you.

“Shall we?” You opened the passenger door, letting her settle in.

The ride was silent for the most part. You expected her to ask questions, after all she just blatantly trusted a total stranger to take her wherever you’d want to. Yet you felt a warmth growing inside your chest from how easily it was to gain her trust. It wasn’t long, though, before she grew curious.

“Are you going to say where you’re taking me?”

“Are you going to ask?” She let out a breathy laugh.

“Touché,” her gaze met yours for the first time since you left her place, “where are you taking me?”

“Dinner,” she smirked, shaking her head in amusement.

“You’re not taking me to dinner.”

“I can if you want. I doubt you’ll want to though.” You admitted.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you let your eyes rake her body on a red light, “mind if I ask a question?”

“I don’t promise I’ll answer it,” you chuckled at her humor, she hadn’t been quite so relaxed since you two met as she was now, it was a nice moment you wished wouldn’t come to an end.

“It hasn’t even been twenty four hours since you found out about your brother’s death, why did you agree to go out with a stranger to an unknown location?”

She fell into deep thought and you feared you’d hit a nerve. Her hands played with her rings, that same one you had noticed earlier, you hoped to ask about it in the future. Thankfully, she finally responded.

“Staying behind and moping won’t bring my brother back, and it most certainly won’t catch his killer,” resilience, it was a surprising characteristic you didn’t think she had, “I prefer to do more useful things with my time.”

You nodded. She wasn’t what you expected, although you could see where she’d get that from. Living in the shadows of her brother, the male, the oldest, she must’ve grown up with this constant need to prove herself, show she was stronger than she looked.

Taking over the company that wasn’t even meant for her, all by herself, would’ve added to that weight she held on her shoulders. You were impressed.

“Why are you bringing me along?” Her voice brought you back to reality.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I assume this has something to do with my brother, and, as far as I know, it is frowned upon to bring civilians into an ongoing investigation, so why are you bringing me?” You kept your eyes on the road.

“Wow, you seem to know a lot about murder investigations,” you teased.

“You’re avoiding the question again.” You could feel her eyes boring into you. In reality, you didn’t quite know how to explain it.

And you didn’t have to.

“We’re here,” you said, parking the car on a crowded street.

She watched as you exited the vehicle, suspicious about the unknown location. Eventually her curiosity got the better of her, and she followed you.

You walked her down the street. She caught several eyes, but hers’ remained forward, a readless expression on her face. Soon enough, the ratio of drunk to sober people was increasing significantly, bars filled to the brim with people drinking away their problems occupied your line of view.

Realization hit Wanda when she caught sight of the black walls and the shiny sign. L’Archange. It did look much more inviting without the utterly annoying crowds wanting to get a glimpse of others’ pain and disgrace.

“What are we doing here?” She recognized it from this afternoon, when you brought her and Wilson to try and search the building.

“You’ll see,” you picked up your pace, but instead of going directly to the front entrance, you took a detour to a side street, a much calmer one at that.

Wanda kept asking all kinds of questions, until you shushed her. The silence of this place could give you away, and being sneaky was key right now.

It wasn't long until you found the exit you were looking for. The exit for the alley. The same alley you and Nat had found yourselves last night. The one that led directly to the back entrance to the club.

At this point Wanda had shut up, more out of fear than anything. She noticed your quietness, even on your careful steps, on your searching eyes. You were up to something dangerous, and she wasn’t fond of it. Still, she stuck to you.

The alley was dark, a single light illuminated the corridor. You didn’t have to go in to know they had caught the bait you planted. A string of voices came from somewhere within it, too muffled for any words to be made out, yet, you knew exactly what they would be saying.

You leaned on the wall to your left, pulling Wanda with you, keeping you both out of view from the alley. A precaution. The woman opened her mouth to say something, but you were faster, taking out your phone and signaling for her to stay quiet.

“What the hell do you want?” Natasha’s voice rang into your ears.

“Come to L’Archange,” you whispered as low as possible, “and bring reinforcements, I think I might just get us Gabriel Burns.”

“What-”

“Now!” You hung up before she could say anything else.

Wanda’s eyes were on you, questioningly. You knew she was as curious as she was scared.

“Remember when we came here earlier?” You spoke to her quietly, she nodded in response. “The guard said we could only get in if we had a warrant, and, although it is their right to request that, I believe he did it because they’re hiding something in there,” you pointed to the building, “and they needed time to get it out.”

“And how do you know they’d do it tonight?”

“Because I forced them to, asking about searching the place puts pressure on them to do it as fast as possible. Search warrants aren’t easy to get, but they don’t take days, they had to do it as soon as possible. Doing it by day was too risky, you saw how empty it was, so the only time left was, right now.”

“Was that why you made me walk around the club?”

“I didn’t make you do anything, but yes, I was checking if there were any other exits, and also stating that this alley,” you gestured to the one in question, “was the only one they could fit an entire truck.”

“Brilliant,” it came out in a breath.

“Planning,” you corrected.

It would take some time for the team to get there, so you patiently waited. Wanda was leaning by your side, her head thrown backwards from boredom. The lack of lighting could’ve made the entire scenario creepy and terrifying, but it didn t.

All you could focus on was the woman standing there with you, while your mind devised plans for the next steps after the alley was cleared. Streaks of yellow illuminated her face, contouring her small nose and full lips, her green eyes turned a honey color under it. You couldn’t make out her expression very well, but you knew she was worried, nervous, her gaze kept shifting whenever she heard even a hint of a noise.

After what seemed like hours, a bright light shined on the both of you, causing your eyes to hurt a little. Once you had adjusted to the new brightness, you saw the classic black SUVs used by the FBI, a rush of relief overcame you.

From the two cars that parked in front of you came out eight agents, all wearing full gear, guns hanging from their shoulders. Agent Barton, the only familiar face amongst them, approached you.

“We’ve got four other cars surrounding the building, where is he?” You gestured down the alley.

He noted, signaling for the other agents to follow him. You barely caught it when he spoke into the device attached to his shoulder, alerting the other teams to move in, giving them the correct location.

You and Wanda watched from a distance as the man advanced into the dark alley, slightly crouched down, guns ready in case anything went wrong. It was seconds after you heard Barton scream “freeze, hands where I can see them,” followed by a string of gunshots.

Once silence reigned again, you pulled Wanda by the wrist into the alley. You took advantage of the poor lighting, hiding in the shadows, close to the walls, where you couldn’t be seen. Wanda tried to protest, not feeling safe walking towards what could have turned into another murder scene, but lost the fight, having no option other than following you.

Your heart rate picked up considerably, pounding in your chest, at the sight right in front of you. Almost twenty FBI agents surrounded a dozen other men, all kneeling and with their hands behind their heads in surrender. All of them stood around a cargo truck, which you assumed was the way they were planning on getting rid of the illegal products hidden in the club.

Not feeling in the mood to stay behind and check that theory, you made sure the situation was under control, and that neither you nor Wanda had been seen, before taking advantage of the turmoil of events that was unfolding to sneak into the club.

The stressfulness of the situation outside could not be compared to the calmness you felt once inside. Loud music invaded your ears, the floor shaking with each beat, after a while you’re sure your own bones would be shaking too.

You pulled Wanda to an emptier corner of the bar, where the music wasn’t so loud and you could listen to each other decently. Your eyes scanned the place thoroughly, until they landed on the woman with you, a frown on her face. She was trying hard not to think about the fact that her brother was murdered here less than twenty four hours ago.

“What’s your plan now?” She yelled, and you widened your eyes, pleading for her to be quieter. Discretion was key.

You took the notebook from your pocket, it’s size was proving to be very convenient, and opened it on the first page you had shown her back in that interrogation room, handing the object to her.

She looked at the open page, then at you, asking for an explanation. You got closer to her, so you wouldn’t need to yell.

“Look around,” she did as you told, “remember you said this looked like a floor plan?” She nodded. “Stage, bar, dance floor,” you said, pointing to the traces on the notebook, realization took over her.

“It’s a drawing of the nightclub,” she said matter-of-factly, “but what do the numbers mean?” The closeness between you two was making you unfocused, you could smell her perfume, sweet and delicate, intoxicating, so it took you a few seconds to respond.

“Second floor,” you pointed up, “I remember when I was here yesterday we walked through a corridor filled with doors, one of them was entirely made of iron, like a safe, I’m convinced that it’s door number four,” you laid your finger on the circled number.

“Then what are we waiting here for?” Her breath tickled the side of your neck.

You directed her eyes to the staircase, just as three men descended it, clearly in a hurry.

“That,” you exclaimed, rising for the barstool you had settled in.

Wanda followed you across the dance floor and up the stairs. You retraced your steps from last night, letting your feet take you back to that same corridor.

You found it just as you remembered. Five doors, all following the same pattern from the scheme on the notebook. The first three doors were open and a quick glance inside showed the rooms inside were mostly empty, probably where they kept all the products they were trying to move out tonight.

Reaching the fourth door, you were pleased to state you were correct, it was the iron-made one. Unfortunately, it was locked.

“Can you break through it?” You looked at Wanda with disbelief.

“You think I can break through an iron door?” It was rhetorical. “You think too highly of me, Ms Maximoff.”

“Well, do you have the key?” You thought about it, remembering the weird way the number five was circled and erased on the notebook drawing.

“No, but I think I know where to find it.”

You walked towards the fifth door, a wooden one, ebony, beautifully carved. And, conveniently, it was unlocked.

The inside had a curious contrast with the rest of the club. A personal office, it seemed like it belonged in an important commercial building, not there. Stone cold floor, a glass desk in the middle, shelves surrounding the walls.

Everything was clean, although it didn’t come as a surprise, this Gabriel Burns guy appears to have an obsession with sanitation. The lack of windows made the room feel claustrophobic. The excessive neatness was discomforting.

You couldn’t help but notice a change in Wanda’s demeanor at the change of setting. The empty and quiet place was doing wonders for her nerves, keeping her calm and somewhat grounded. Her natural habitat, you assumed.

She moved around with a sense of comfort. Instincts kicking in. It was a sight to see, and if you weren’t in such a hurry, you could watch her walking through that room, wearing that dress, for hours on end.

“So what now?” Her voice broke you off of your daze.

You scanned the room carefully, too many places to look, and who knew how much time you actually had.

“Here,” you tossed her the notebook, “see if you can find anything.”

She took it into her hands, but by the rush with which you searched the room, she knew better than to ask any questions. She leafed hurriedly through the pages, while you looked inside drawers and cabinets.

“The books!” She exclaimed excitedly.

“What?” You stopped all your movements to look at her.

“‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known’,” she read, “it’s Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.”

She showed you the page where it was written. You smiled towards her, impressed by how quick she was in recognizing the piece they were from.

Your mind kept hammering replaying those words, her melodic voice reciting them to you. An awkwardly intimate moment during a pressed one. She noted your silence, running behind you while her eyes searched for something on the shelves.

Those were lined with untouched pieces. All kinds of pale colored hardcovers, organized in an aesthetically pleasing way, following no particular logic. Gabriel Burns wasn’t a man for reading, and yet he knew the classics. Shakespeare, Bronte, Fitzgerald…

“Dickens!” She took a book off of the shelf, green cover with golden details. It was as good as new, even if the edition appeared to be an old one. Wanda opened it and there it was.

She raised the small metallic object with a victorious smile on her face, the pages of the book hiding the key on a small hole cut on two dozen pieces of paper.

“Brilliant,” you said, taking the key from her hand and heading to the fourth door.

The key fit in perfectly, an annoying creaking sound invading your ears as you pushed the iron door open.

This room was clearly an important one to the owner, the walls were reinforced in metal, a cabinet stood on the side, and a computer, with at least ten different screens took all your attention.

You took a seat before the device, turning it on. All the screens lit up with images from the nightclub, security cameras, but one, the front one showed a small box, requesting a password. Wanda let out a puff of air behind you in frustration.

“Can you hack it?”

“No,” you simply answered, “but there’s this page on the notebook I’ve been confused about,” you took said object from her, opening on the page right after the floor plan of the club.

There were numbers, a string of them, with some blank spots in the middle. It didn’t make any sense. They followed no order or pattern whatsoever. Wanda had a puzzled look on her face as well.

She picked up the notebook to take a closer look, pinching her eyebrows together, and you let her. You watched as she walked around the mostly empty room, trying to look at it from different angles or a different kind of lighting until a bulb seemed to light up over her head.

“What if we…,” she bent the old notebook weirdly, placing the page in front of you, against the light emitted by the computer screens and you could see the drawings complimented each other.

You wasted no time in typing out the numbers, and let out a groan when it announced the password was incorrect. When Wanda didn’t say anything, an idea popped into your mind, and you changed the numbers one, two and three from the other page to the letters i, e and s.

A little cheer left Wanda’s lips, bringing a smile to your face, as several windows popped up on the screen. You started searching vigorously for anything useful; files, documents, transactions.

Once you had found the latter, you picked up the pendrive you had conveniently brought, inserting it on the system, and started uploading all the information. Wanda got bored quickly, seeing as the process was a slow one, and decided to do a search on the rest of the room, out of curiosity.

Well, you were very glad she did.

“Sara,” her voice broke, tense and shaking, you turned around to see her standing before the cabinet, the doors thrown open, a peculiar device sat on the empty shelf.

Your bones shivered, in your rush to get all the information from the computer you hadn’t heard the constant beeping coming from a bomb planted in the room. The woman was frozen, unable to move, the uploading was nearly complete.

“Wanda,” you tried to sound as calm as possible, “how long do we have?”

Her legs were shaking, her hands let go of the cabinet doors. With wide eyes, and a trembling voice, she finally responded after seconds that seemed like hours.

“58 seconds.”

There was no time to think, just look. Your fingers typed on the keyboard faster than you thought was possible. Windows opened and closed at the speed of light. Your eyes scanned everything with an expertise you most definitely didn’t have.

“Wanda get out,” you were exasperated at the frightened woman, she hadn’t moved an inch and the pauses between each beep were getting shorter and shorter.

Soon enough there was no discerning the time between each beep. Your heart was beating as fast as the timer was running out. The uploading was complete but your time was out.

You took the pendrive and pushed Wanda out of the room just as the bomb exploded behind you.