ΛЯᄃΛ

From Dex's perspective, things were different inside his head. He had returned to his apartment after the disastrous "dinner" with Julie. He was shattered, the sound of flies buzzing in his skull incessantly, along with a cascade of stray words from every person he had ever known.

(Let go of me, Dex!..I would do anything for you...You're alone...)

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to silence the voices that were consuming him from the inside. He reached for his phone in his pocket, searching for your contact.

He needed you.

That was how he started calling you. On the first attempt, he frowned. Why weren't you answering? What were you doing?

Oh.

What if you were with another man? What if he had frightened you and you had run away? What if you never wanted to see him again, just like Julie? Were you angry with him?

He was growing increasingly agitated. He was on the third call and you still weren't answering. Until, all of a sudden, you hung up.

Well, technically it wasn't you, but for him, from his perspective, you had hung up on him without a word. It was one more reason to know that, indeed, you didn't want to see him. Had he done something wrong?

His breathing grew worse, rapid, panting in disbelief. He threw the phone to the floor, without much force. And he looked back at his apartment, no longer able to hear anything around him. He could only hear voices, telling him the worst things about himself. That he was horrible, that he was alone, that he was nothing to the world.

Finally, in an act of pure rage, he screamed and punched the wall, leaving a faint crack in the plaster. He was a little startled, but not by the pain—rather, by the mess he was making. His knuckles were damaged, smeared with blood, and he tried to wipe it off on his white shirt.

It only made things worse.

His white shirt became stained with blood with every wipe, making him even more agitated. In the end, he unbuttoned his shirt with frantic speed, revealing his bare torso, and went straight to the sink, trying to scrub the stain out with water, but it was impossible; the blood wouldn't come out.

"Shit... shit..." he murmured, terrified.

He stopped trying. What was the point? He couldn't go back now. He felt his heart racing a mile a minute, clenching his fists as his head spun and spun. With force, he grabbed two plates and hurled them against the wall, smashing them with ease.

Then he threw another object, which landed with a dull thud on the floor. He began throwing everything he could see: knives, forks, a frying pan... He even punched a mirror in the living room, shattering it and seeing himself in a thousand broken pieces on the floor.

He grabbed one of the kitchen knives and, with all his might, hurled it at the wall. What he hadn't expected was that it would strike the photograph hanging there. That photo of him and Julie at the "Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center." Only, the knife had pierced directly through Julie's face, as if it were some kind of omen. He was so overwhelmed that he frantically searched through his belongings for his therapist's cassette tapes, putting the headphones over his ears as he listened, trying to calm himself down.

He collapsed onto the floor, his back against the sofa, staring at nothing as he tried to find some peace.

"Good to see you, Dex. How was your week?" his therapist's voice spoke.

"I'm scared, doctor..."

"Scared? What are you scared of?"

Your eyes slowly opened, the ceiling coming into focus through a blur. The first thing you noticed was a smell, something like wax. A candle was burning somewhere in the room, but what truly made you realize it was that you were not in your apartment. You were not on the street, nor on your kitchen floor, and to top it off, you had nothing in your hands.

When you shifted slightly, you hissed at the pain that shot through your body. Everything hurt: your ribs, your nose (which now had a fresh bandage on it), your cheek, and most of all, your arm. It was bandaged from the shoulder down to the middle of your forearm. But still, you were alive. For now.

You looked around. The ceiling was made of stone, with dark wooden beams crossing overhead. There were windows with semi-colored glass panes. You were lying on an old mattress, a rough, greenish blanket covering your legs. Slowly, your hand went to your wound, and you noticed the clothes you were wearing were not the same ones you'd had on last night. Someone had undressed you and tended to you, putting you in at least an old t-shirt, while your pants remained the same, and you had no shoes. This meant someone knew where you were, or at least, that they had found you. You didn't remember much about the night before.

Your bare feet touched the floor, and a shiver ran down your spine. You didn't trust anyone, least of all the person who had saved you, especially after what had happened. You braced yourself against the wall and started walking slowly toward an orange light that glowed from a nearby room. The closer you got, the more sounds you could hear, until you stopped.

There was someone with their back to you, a hunched figure in a veil, murmuring something under her breath while arranging glass bottles on a table. It was a nun. Did that mean you were in a church? Just what you needed. You couldn't see her face, only her back and her wrinkled hands moving. She didn't look like a threat, but you weren't going to take any chances. You carefully surveyed the room until your eyes landed on a glass bottle on the table. With great care, you started to approach, closing your fingers around the bottle and moving closer to the nun. Your hand began to rise, calculating the aim needed to strike her on the head, holding your breath.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she warned.

The nun's voice hit you like a punch. She didn't turn around. She didn't even flinch. She just kept arranging her bottles as if nothing had happened, as if you hadn't just been about to attack her from behind.

"Sit down. You're in no shape to be standing, look at you... you're still trembling," she added, her voice sharp.

You lowered the bottle, staring at her with furrowed brows, unable to believe it. You had so many questions to ask, but the words wouldn't leave your mouth.

The nun turned around, studying you with a neutral expression. She wasn't scared. She took the bottle from your hand and set it down on the table with a soft thud. "Sit down," she repeated, pointing with her chin to a chair. "I'm not going to hurt you. But if you try something like that again, I swear I'll put you out on the street."

When she turned her back, you looked her up and down. Indeed, she was just an ordinary nun. You opened your mouth for a few seconds, on the verge of complaining, but in the end, you gave in, sitting in the chair. You looked like a scolded child after a mother's telling-off.

"Where am I?" you asked, clearing your throat a little.

"Clinton Church." The nun set the bottles down on the table. "And in case you're wondering, yes, you're safe. According to him, for now."

"Him?" you asked, bewildered. "Who is 'him'?"

She fell silent for a moment. "Him," she finally added, as if unwilling to give you too much information.

You slowly opened your mouth, confused. "And that's it?" you said, unable to believe it. After that, she didn't say much, just paced around the room, moving things about.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"A few hours. It's still the middle of the night." She handed you a glass of water. "Drink. You lost a lot of blood from your arm."

You accepted the glass, murmuring a thank you before drinking slowly.

Suddenly, you blurted out, "And my phone? Was it with me when he brought me?"

She shook her head.

"You didn't have it on you. Just the clothes."

Shit. Your phone had been left in your apartment, on the bed, where you'd thrown it just before attacking the thug. Where Dex had called you.

«Not now...» you remembered murmuring before tossing it away.

And then, the second call. The one the intruder had rejected. Dex had called you twice, maybe more, who knows. And you hadn't answered.

A knot formed in your throat. You had no idea what he must be thinking. You didn't know if he had left you a message. You didn't know if he was okay, if he was worried, if he believed you had abandoned him like Julie, like everyone else.

You needed a phone. You needed to talk to him. But right now, you were trapped in a church, with a nun staring at you as if you were a wounded animal, cut off from the outside world.

"Do you have a phone?" you asked, your voice more urgent than you intended.

She watched you for a few seconds. Then, without a word, she shook her head.

"No. And even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you. You need to rest."

"I don't need rest... I need to talk to someone."

"What you need is to stay put in that chair," she shot back, crossing her arms. "The man who brought you here risked his life to save you. I'm not going to let you throw his effort away because you can't sit still."

You pressed your lips together, somewhat frustrated. But you didn't have the strength to argue. You just bit the inside of your cheek, shaking your head slowly. "Unbelievable..." you murmured.

The nun glanced aside, expressionless. She hadn't heard your mutterings or complaints, but she began to hear the sound of boots, drawing closer and closer to the room.

The same figure from last night appeared, dressed in the same suit with his eyes covered.

"I'll leave you with your visitor," she said dryly, and slowly walked out of the room.

You looked at the figure, narrowing your eyes slightly at him. You got to your feet, slowly, not looking away. The pain in your arm was a constant reminder of how close you had come to dying. And a reminder that this man, whoever he was, had saved you. But he had also stopped you when you were about to finish off the intruder. And that still burned inside you.

"Are you here to lecture me again?" you asked, with bitterness. "Because I'm not in a good mood."

He opened his mouth, emotionless. "I'm glad to see you too. Good morning." He remained standing, a few meters away from you, without invading your space. "I've been to your apartment."

You froze. Your heart lurched.

"And?"

"Let's just say... it seems someone cleaned everything up. The bodies were gone, no traces of blood... not even the broken things. Everything was clean," he added.

"And who would do that?" you asked, frowning.

"What do you think?"

You frowned again. You didn't understand anything, and you had no suspicions, not even about Dex, at least. He, on the other hand, sighed, sounding tired.

"Fisk. It was him," he explained.

"And my phone?" you added. "Was it there?"

He shook his head. "No, unfortunately not. I suspect someone took it, probably one of his people."

Damn. That meant you couldn't contact Dex, at least for now. You couldn't tell him you were alive, that you had no intention of abandoning him, and that no matter what, you were going to find him. And he, meanwhile, was going out of his mind.

"I... I don't understand, why... Why is he after me, then?" You raised your eyes to the masked man. "We've never met face to face. And I haven't done anything, literally. This is ridiculous."

The stranger was silent for a few seconds. Then, in a softer voice, he replied. "I don't think it's a matter of knowing him for him to want to kill you. He does what he wants to people who have never even seen his face. It's possible you did something with someone who matters too much to him. Fisk doesn't tolerate any of his pawns slipping out of his control."

You stared at him for several seconds, still not fully grasping the situation. You hadn't done anything wrong.

"So... I'm asking you, please, to stay here. At least until I can find a solution so that you're out of danger," he added.

"Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?" You shook your head, looking at him.

"It's for your own good. Believe me, if you run out of here, you'll be dead before sunrise... There will be people who want to kill you, or worse." He took a soft step toward you. "Please, I need you to stay," he added.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. In the end, he was right. If you left, you could end up dead, dumped, or wiped off the map. And you wouldn't like that at all. You sighed softly, nodding without looking at him. "Fine... fine... I'll stay," you murmured.

"Thank you..." he said with sincerity. And without another word, he began to walk away, or rather, to move away from you, heading toward another part of the church. You slumped back onto the mattress, staring at the beamed ceiling, pensive.

What was Dex doing right now? You hoped he was okay, and not eating himself alive...

As bad luck would have it, Dex had been paranoid all through the previous night. He didn't sleep well. In fact, he woke up very early, breaking his routine this time. The only way to know if you were still there or not was to go back to your apartment. So he climbed up the fire escape, and the first thing he noticed was that the window was completely open. He entered slowly, surveying the living room with caution.

There was no trace of you.

He wandered through every room, and you were nowhere. Your bed was made, and checking your belongings and closet, he noticed things were missing: clothes, objects, even some books from your shelf... Had you left without telling him anything?

He took a deep breath, a slight twitch in his eye. He didn't like this feeling at all. What had he done wrong for you to abandon him like this?

He pulled out his phone one last time, checked your number, exhaled slowly, and called you again.

He waited... one, two, three, four seconds. No response for the full ten seconds, until...

You hung up.

He saw "call rejected" on his phone and his lips parted slightly in disbelief. He didn't need to know more; with this, he knew you didn't want to see him. That you were scared of him, that you had seen how horrible he was. And even though he had a little faith in you, that you would never leave him, his mind was so broken that it seemed you had abandoned him. He pressed his lips together, his hand trembling with the phone, the voices in his head sounding again, in different distorted tones.

(You see...? You're alone... You need to find your North Star... Doctor, I'm scared... Let go of me, Dex! I told you to let me go! ... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone... You're alone...)

He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, pulling at some locks of his hair as if to distract himself from the noise. He had to get out of your apartment as soon as possible, and that's what he did, leaving quickly. He went down the stairs carefully. He was angry, with everything in general, but above all, he was very, very furious with Fisk. He was certain Fisk was behind the whole thing with Julie. It was impossible that she had ended up in the same hotel as him by pure coincidence, and given the conversations they'd had before, it seemed like Fisk was trying to help him, to make him understand that... he was the only one who could understand him.

He headed to the hotel in the morning. He wasn't even on his shift schedule, but it didn't matter now. Who would even notice? He didn't greet anyone; he walked with a blank mind, taking the elevator up to the penthouse.

The first thing he did was go to the surveillance room, sitting in the swivel chair and watching Fisk through the cameras, intently. The only thing was, he hadn't realized there was a female colleague in there with him.

She turned around softly, looking at him with a smile. "Ugh... You look awful... You know you're two hours early, right?" she asked.

Dex blinked, the flies still buzzing in his head. "Yeah... the... neighbors, yeah. They wouldn't let me sleep."

"Again? Damn, just move already! Or take 'em to couples therapy. If they were my neighbors, I'd go over there and give 'em a piece of my mind..."

He didn't hear half of what she said, because he was focused on the cameras, and all he could hear were his own voices.

(Do you think someone like that deserves a second chance...? Your internal compass isn't broken, Dex... It'll be better when you're guided by the North Star... Let go of me, Dex... I told you to let me go! Then follow our plan... A safe space... Would you like to meet up later, to talk? Dex... you're not bad...)

A snap of fingers brought him back to reality, and he looked at the girl. "Umm... Yeah."

"Where were you?" she said with a laugh. "We gotta feed him."

"No, no, I know. I know..." he blinked again, until an idea struck him. "You know what? I'll do it."

His colleague frowned. "You sure? It's not even your shift?" she asked, though she was somewhat grateful for the help.

"No, but... I could really use a decent coffee. Do you mind going down and getting me one?" He looked at her. "I'll take care of the animal."

She set the tray down on the table, smiling at him. "He's all yours."

His colleague headed downstairs, and Dex, meanwhile, taking advantage of being alone, began shutting off all the cameras. So there would be no evidence of what he was about to do. Then he grabbed the tray and headed toward the penthouse doors. He took a deep breath, changing his expression, though he still looked terrible. And he opened the door firmly, staring at Fisk, who was seated at his table.

Fisk was no longer wearing the same blue jumpsuit from previous days; now he wore a suit, a plain white one, with a black shirt underneath.

Dex approached, setting the plate down on the table with a firm thud, looking at him. "I don't know what strings you pulled to hire that waitress, but it was a waste of time..." He placed his hands on the back of another chair. "At Quantico, they taught us counterintelligence. Did you think I'd fall for an amateur trap?" He paused. "Did you get it into your head that she means something to me? Well, it's not true." He shook his head. "She doesn't mean shit to me."

He stepped away from the chair, smiling coldly at him. "You think... just because you've been following me for a few days, you know me? That you've got me figured out?" His smile dropped. "Don't even dream it. You don't know shit about me," he added, with bitterness.

Fisk said nothing about it, just watched him with that neutral expression, and that drove Dex crazy. So much so that he swept the plate off the table in anger. "Say something!" he shouted, the sound of the metal lid spinning echoing in the room.

Fisk opened his mouth, his tone neutral. "When I was a boy... I... crushed my father's skull with a hammer." He paused. "I was twelve years old. I was very small for my age, I had no experience with anything. I'd never danced with a girl, I'd never... stayed out past midnight." He added, "I'd never even left the city, never even taken the subway by myself."

Dex didn't understand what he was explaining, and he frowned, breathing somewhat rapidly.

"Twelve years old... Standing over my father's body. Mortally wounded, watching him." Fisk began to rise, looking at him, while Dex took a step back, a little scared. "That... feeling, that moment..." he paused for a long moment. "I have a sense that it's familiar to you." He started to raise his voice, firmly, as if delivering a political speech. "You were taught to hide behind falsehoods, you turned yourself into someone the world can tolerate. A soldier who does his duty, an FBI marksman, the attentive companion to a good girl..."

"You've ruined what I had with her..." Dex murmured coldly, though deep down, he didn't know if Fisk was referring to you or to Julie.

Fisk, however, continued speaking with a raised voice. "If you had been honest and authentic, no one could have ruined it."

Dex clenched his jaw. "I should have let you die." Fisk took another step. "Don't come any closer..." Dex added again, feeling a tear slowly slide down his cheek, defeated.

"Julie would never have understood you... Not even your colleague," he said, referring to you. "Society, either," he added. "They penalize... people like you... like us."

Dex's eyes widened, a little frightened by that last part, and he slowly shook his head, starting to leave the room, trying not to let Fisk's clear and harsh words get into his head. Fisk didn't stop him; on the contrary, he liked that he was leaving.

It was only a matter of time before he would eventually come back to him.

He returned to the surveillance room, acting as if nothing had happened, but he was more paranoid now, this time with Fisk's voice in his head. And now, with his vision distorted, he saw Fisk's figure in every corner of the room, as if he had multiplied: one above, one on the table, one walking down the hallways...

(She would never have understood you... She would never have understood the real Dex... Society wouldn't either. They penalize... people like you, like us...)

"Dex," his colleague called out, making him blink and snap out of his trance once more. "What?" he replied with annoyance.

She handed him a newspaper, with concern. "They're using you as a scapegoat..." she pointed out.

He slowly took the newspaper. No, impossible.

"I'm sorry, Dex," she added. "It's not fair..." Delicately, she set the coffee he had ordered on the table before walking away.

Dex clenched his jaw, staring at the newspaper. "FBI Investigates One of Its Own."

"They're not doing you justice. It's their way of seeing things," Hattley explained, in an office alongside a supervisor and him.

"I assure you we will investigate everything to the fullest extent," the supervisor spoke, but Dex wasn't listening to them. He was back with the flies in his head, the voices of the two of them echoing around him.

"Consider it a paid vacation," she added, firmly.

"Take whatever time you need to collect your things."

(We've prepared for this... You're going to find a job that requires discipline... You're going to stay on your medication... We're going to learn to change...)

Without a word, Dex handed over his badge and his gun, leaving the office in silence. As he opened the door, people stared at him without shame, the newspaper in their hands, murmuring things about him. He kept walking until he ran into Nadeem, who was visibly nervous. "Do you have a minute...?"

"Uh... Yeah, of course, Dex, go ahead," he replied, before glancing at a woman. "Will you excuse us a moment?"

He sighed, looking at him. "They're going to... They're going to suspend me, Ray. They dare to- to..."

"Hey," he tried to calm him. "First of all, breathe." He looked around, without meeting his eyes yet. "Everything's going to be okay... alright?"

"Then tell me that while looking me in the eye," Dex said, his voice cold.

"Hey— I'm on your side." He met his eyes.

"They can't fire me, man... I need this job." It was clear he was on edge. "Please, you have to do something," he begged.

"I wrote up a good assessment of your conduct during the shootout..." And as Nadeem explained, Dex had drifted off again, the distorted voices filling his head.

(You see how alone you are...? It wasn't your fault... It wasn't your fault... Dex, tell me... What scares you is the emptiness that surrounds you... Do you see how alone you are...?)

He didn't even realize another tear was sliding down his cheek.

"You've got nothing to worry about," Nadeem added, looking at him. "Take care of yourself..."

Ray walked away, leaving him alone.

Now he had no job, no one. He had no protocol, no routine, he wasn't even taking his medication. What was he going to do now?

You spent the morning in the church, not speaking to anyone, literally. The nun was nowhere in sight, nor was the figure who had saved you. You were completely alone. You passed the time by investigating the area, coming across a set of damaged boxing gloves and a punching bag. Then, some vials of medication and dried blood on the floor.

And from there, you saw a staircase. You looked around; no one was stopping you from going up. You began to climb slowly, until you reached a set of huge doors before you. You opened them carefully, the sound echoing terribly, and found yourself facing the intense emptiness of the church. Before you stretched an endless aisle of dark wooden pews, worn smooth by centuries of parishioners. The columns rose like petrified trees toward a ceiling painted with religious motifs now barely visible in the gloom. Candles flickered on the side altars, and a faint, orange light filtered through the stained glass, dyeing the floor in muted colors.

Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. You walked toward the main altar, feeling tiny beneath the vaulted ceilings. The figure of a crucified Christ gazed down at you from on high, its arms outstretched in a gesture you couldn't tell was welcome or supplication. You stopped before him. You weren't a believer; truly, you never had been. But today, here, in this silence, you needed to speak to someone who couldn't judge you, even if that someone didn't exist.

Slowly, you sat in one of the front pews, staring at the Christ.

"Is this a punishment?" you asked. "For having been born this way?"

You paused. The silence in the church was so vast you could almost hear your own words echoing back against the stone walls, softly.

"If you're really there... and if you see everything, then you already know what I'm truly like."

Your voice grew low, and you looked at the floor, fidgeting with your hands.

"I'm not a good person... I know that perfectly well. And I don't think I ever will be in some distant future. I've done things that aren't normal to people, and I don't regret any of it. I would do it all again..."

You raised your gaze.

"Sometimes I wonder if I was born broken... or if I just broke so early that there's no way to be put back together. There are people who can change, who can repent, start over. But I don't think that's the case for me. I'm already too far gone... And even if I try to pretend otherwise... I know it wouldn't last long."

You sighed.

"Lately... well, no. I'm sorry. For my entire life, I've felt very, very empty. Truly. It's been like... walking through a dark tunnel, with no end. Where you can't turn back, even if you want to, you can't. I've known people who, even if they were the right people, I've never felt any closeness to them... Possibly because I've never had the ability to feel anything, at least. Not even with Ray..." you murmured. "Despite that, I've tried to feel normal... but it's useless, you know? I'm not succeeding, and it doesn't bother me at all." You shrugged. "It's not that I even care anymore..."

You let your head fall back, staring at the ceiling. "I don't even care about dying anymore... But I'm still alive, despite it all. As if life is preventing me from dying, even though I have nothing left to offer it. And the worst part isn't that... The worst part is that it doesn't even scare me anymore."

You paused again, longer this time. When you spoke again, your voice had lost some of that cutting coldness.

"But there's one person..."

Your tone shifted slightly. It grew lower, more sincere.

"Who is the only thing that makes me doubt all of that. Not because I think I can actually change. But because when I'm close to him, I feel like I can be exactly who I am... Without having to pretend. Without him looking at me like I'm a monster. It's like we share the same darkness. Does that make sense...?"

You lowered your gaze to the floor. Your voice became barely a whisper:

"If there's something I must confess to you now... It's that I would kill for him."

The silence in the church seemed to grow even heavier after those words. You raised your gaze back to the crucifix, with an expression that was tired but resolute.

"I don't say it as a threat, I promise. I say it because it's the truth. It's the only thing that still gives my life any meaning. If someone tries to hurt him... I wouldn't hesitate. And if one day his light goes out... if he decides he no longer wants to keep walking through this tunnel... then I'll have no reason to keep going either."

You paused one more time, almost as if it was hard to continue.

"The thought of him being left alone... that's what truly terrifies me. Because if he breaks too... then all of this will have been for nothing. And I'll have nothing left to stop me from becoming the worst thing I can be," you confessed. "So yes... I would kill and I would die for him. And if there's something after this, I would go after him too, without thinking. Because without him, I have nothing... And without me, neither does he."

You narrowed your eyes a little, gazing at the crucifix. "I guess you let me live for him... Or so I think." You bit the inside of your cheek. "If there's anything else I can ask for... it's that I can see him again. Even if it's just once. Even if it's so he can hate me... I just ask for that."

The silence returned the echo of your words. There was no answer, but you weren't expecting one. You stayed there for a while longer, your hands resting on your lap. In the end, you let out a tired sigh and stood up slowly.

You didn't realize you weren't alone.

The nun was standing in the shadows of the side aisle, partially hidden behind one of the columns. She had been there for several minutes. Long enough to overhear almost your entire conversation with the silence. She hadn't come in with the intention of interrupting you, of course. She had come in because she wanted to understand who you truly were.

And now, she believed she was beginning to.

She watched you in silence as you stood. She made no sound. She just remained there, her hands clasped beneath her habit and an expression that was hard to read. Slowly, she walked away through another door.

After that, several hours passed. At first, you tried to stay still, just as that figure had asked. You sat on one of the pews, staring ahead without focusing on anything in particular. But the stillness was unbearable. Every minute that passed without doing anything made you feel more trapped, more useless.

The nun (Maggie, because she eventually gave you her name) watched you constantly, not all the time, but after seeing you talking to yourself in front of God, she kept a closer eye on you.

You could kill her easily, or so you thought. But if you did, it might complicate things too much.

And at one point, while you were downstairs, you heard a female voice greeting her.

It was Karen.

You couldn't make out everything from where you were, but it seemed like she was trying to find someone, and then have a deep conversation with Maggie.

Suddenly, an idea came to you.

Slowly, you put on your shoes and began to climb the stairs again, cracking the door open slightly to watch them, waiting for the right moment to speak with her.

When she passed near you, you stepped out of the doorway and called to her in a low but clear voice.

"Karen."

She spun around, startled. Seeing you, she narrowed her eyes for a second, recognizing you.

"You..." she said, looking you up and down.

You took a step forward, keeping some distance so as not to frighten her further.

"Hello, Karen..." you said with a small, tired smile. "It's good to see you again."

Karen looked at you cautiously, but without fear. More with that expression of someone trying to fit the pieces together. "Wait... What are you doing here?" she asked, before looking at your wounds. "Are you... okay...?"

You shrugged, not caring much. "I've been better. It's nothing."

She frowned. "I... I don't understand. What happened?"

"To sum it up for you, I was attacked, and someone saved me. It was... a masked man in a black suit, nothing interesting. The thing is... he brought me here, locked me up. But... I'm afraid I don't want to be here much longer." You looked at her.

Karen understood immediately who you were referring to, because, well, she especially knew him. "And why did you come looking for me? We don't even... we barely know each other."

"Well... because I need help. And because you're involved in all this too, aren't you? You were asking me about the shootout and Fisk's transfer the other time. Just like me... Even if for different reasons."

Karen studied you for a few seconds, as you guided her further inside; even so, she had lowered her guard a little. "Explain yourself."

"You want information, don't you? I can give it to you, no problem. Whatever you want. Honestly! I'll answer you without any issue. Even about what you're looking for right now," you said, somewhat desperately. "I can help you... In return, you first have to get me out of here. That's all. After that, when we're done, I'll go my way... and you go yours, and I won't say a word, not a single word about this." You added.

Karen raised an eyebrow. "That's... it? That I get you out of here?"

"That's it," you repeated. "I won't say anything about any of this. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible..."

Karen stared at you, as if trying to read whether you were lying or not. In the end, she let out a short sigh.

"You're direct, at least."

You nodded.

Karen narrowed her eyes for a second, but continued:

"I'm looking for someone. An inmate named Jasper Evans... He's the one who stabbed Fisk in prison. Everyone thinks it was a real attack, but I know Fisk paid him to do it. He did it so they'd move him out of Rikers and put him up in that shitty penthouse..."

You fell silent, processing the information. Fisk's name put you on alert, but Jasper Evans' name meant nothing to you.

"I don't know who that guy is," you admitted with sincerity. "Never heard of him. My bad."

Karen sighed. She couldn't back out now, and she went on. "He's hiding out in a rundown building now. I want to find him and take him to the Bulletin so he can testify. If he talks, we can really screw Fisk."

You were silent for a few seconds, processing the information. Fisk's name always put you on alert, especially now that Dex was getting closer and closer to him.

"Does anyone else know about this?" you asked. "About this?"

"Just... two people, that's all." She didn't go into detail. Then she shook her head. "So how the hell are you going to help me if you don't even know who Jasper Evans is?"

You were silent for a second. You didn't take offense at her tone. In fact, you understood it.

"I don't know," you admitted with sincerity, with a slight shrug. "I have no idea who that guy is or what exactly he did. But that doesn't mean I can't be useful to you."

Karen raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

"Oh, really? Explain."

"I'm a forensic scientist. If we end up finding this Jasper Evans and he needs... persuasion, or if there's evidence to verify... I can help perfectly."

You paused briefly.

"And I can also testify. Tell them what happened to me in my apartment. That someone tried to kill me. That could be useful to you, right? For your Bulletin and maybe to screw Fisk."

Karen studied you in silence for several seconds. She seemed to be weighing whether it was worth the risk to involve you. In the end, she let out a long, weary sigh.

"God... I can't believe I'm doing this," she murmured, running a hand over her face. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

You nodded, emotionless.

"Okay. Listen carefully. We can't go out the front door. Maggie... she's downstairs, and I highly doubt she'll let us leave without asking questions. At least not you, anyway. Besides, if what you're telling me is true, if the guy in black finds out you left..."

She stopped and looked at you.

"I guess you don't care what he thinks anymore, right?"

"Not at all," you answered without hesitation.

Karen sighed.

"There's a back exit through the sacristy. It's old, but it can be used. The problem is we have to cross part of the building without being seen."

"That's easy. You can walk normally and I'll go behind you. You open the door... and... we're out," you explained.

"Pray we don't get caught," she said, before moving out of there.

You began to follow her down the side aisle, moving away from the main nave. Each step you took echoed a little more than you would have liked on the wooden floor. Your bandaged arm bothered you with every movement, but you ignored it.

Karen, on the other hand, walked with confidence.

You went down some narrow stairs that smelled of pure dampness. At one point, Karen raised a hand for you to stop. She stood still, listening. From downstairs, you could hear slow footsteps and the soft rustle of cloth against the floor.

Maggie.

Karen looked at you over her shoulder and jerked her head toward a side passage. This way.

You slipped into an even narrower corridor, almost in total darkness. You had to walk sideways to keep from brushing the walls. Your heart was beating a little faster than normal, though you felt a rush of adrenaline at the moment; it was like one of those action movies.

Suddenly, Maggie's footsteps drew closer. They were right at the end of the corridor you were about to pass through.

Karen grabbed your good arm and pushed you gently against the wall, pressing herself against it too. You stood completely still, holding your breath. You could hear Maggie approaching. She passed so close you could almost see the shadow of her habit projected on the wall in front of you.

You stayed frozen, watching Karen. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes fixed on the moving shadow. For a second, it seemed like Maggie stopped, as if she had noticed something.

The silence was so thick it almost hurt.

Finally, the footsteps retreated. Maggie continued on her way to another part of the church.

Karen waited a few more seconds before letting go of your arm. She looked at you and whispered, barely audible:

"Jesus... she almost caught us."

You kept moving, faster now. You went down another flight of stairs and reached an old wooden door, half-hidden behind some dusty shelves. Karen pushed it carefully. It creaked a little, but it opened.

The cold night air hit your faces.

You stepped out into the back alley of the church. You were laughing, enjoying the tense moment you'd just been through. Karen closed the door as silently as possible behind you both before continuing to walk with you.

"Good. We're out now..." she said in a low voice. "My car's just a few steps away." She pointed, and you followed her.

You both got into the car as fast as possible, while you laughed quietly at everything that was happening. "This is unbelievable..." you murmured. You were definitely not right in the head to be laughing about it.

Karen started the engine without another word and drove away from the neighborhood with considerably more haste than you expected. For the first few minutes, the silence was thick. The only sound was the engine and the faint rattle of the old car.

Suddenly, Karen spoke without taking her eyes off the road.

"By the way... I saw a story in the Bulletin about the FBI. I didn't read the whole thing, but it talked about an agent who had 'inappropriate conduct.' Something serious, from the looks of it."

You frowned and looked at her.

"Inappropriate conduct?"

Karen nodded her head.

"There's a copy in the back seat, if you want to see it."

You reached back and grabbed the crumpled newspaper. You unfolded it on your lap and looked at the front page.

Your eyes flew open.

You were completely frozen, reading and rereading the headline as if the words would change if you blinked. You felt your stomach tighten. The name that appeared was unmistakable.

Karen glanced at you sideways and frowned at your reaction.

"Do you... know him?" she asked, in a more serious tone.

You didn't answer right away. You just kept staring at the photo that accompanied the story. Dex, in his FBI uniform, literally front and center, probably his intake photo. The headline spoke of suspension and an internal investigation for "inappropriate conduct" during an operation. (You imagined it was about the shootout.)

You felt something tighten hard in your chest.

Your expression slowly shifted to a more serious one.

"Hey, seriously. Is something wrong? Do you know who that is?" Karen asked.

You stayed silent for a few seconds, still looking at Dex's photo on the front page. You felt that tightness in your chest, but you had absolutely no intention of explaining anything to Karen.

"He's nobody," you finally answered, in a drier tone than you intended. You folded the newspaper and placed it back on the rear seat, as if by doing so you could make the story disappear.

Karen raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

"'Nobody'?" she repeated, her tone making it clear she wasn't buying that answer. "Because the way you were staring at that photo isn't exactly how someone looks at 'nobody'."

You faced her directly, your expression closed.

"It's none of your business, Karen."

She let out a short scoff, but she didn't seem angry. More like resigned.

"Fine. Understood. You don't want to talk about him. Perfect," she said, turning her eyes back to the road.

She drove in silence for almost a full minute before speaking again, this time in a lower, almost tired tone:

"Look, I have no idea who that guy is to you. And frankly, I don't care right now. But if you're coming with me to that building, I need you to have your head in the game. Not on whatever's going on with him. Understood?"

You didn't answer. You just kept staring out the window, your jaw clenched.

Karen sighed. "Damn..." she murmured.

You made the rest of the journey in silence. The neighborhood you were entering grew darker and more dilapidated. Karen slowed down and parked two streets away from an old brick building. She turned off the headlights but left the engine running for a moment.

"That one there," she said, pointing with her head to the building two doors down. "That's where Jasper Evans is hiding. Or at least where he was the last time I had intel." She pulled out her phone, showing you a photo of him. "That's him."

You nodded slowly.

Without a word, she started gathering her things, opening her wallet to find the necessary cash, and then... a gun.

"You have a gun?" you asked.

Karen shot you a quick look, unsurprised, as if she'd been expecting you to notice. "Yes..." she replied simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "And I'd rather not have to use it, but I'd rather have it just in case."

She was quiet for a moment, studying you.

"This place isn't safe. The people who live here aren't usually very friendly to strangers. If someone tries to screw with us... I'd rather be prepared."

You got out of the car, passing through an alley where there were literally people sprawled on the ground.

You entered the building. The interior was dark, lit only by a few faint lights and candles. There were bottles strewn on the floor and a dense smell of smoke. Several people looked at you with distrust as you passed.

A young man approached you both slowly.

"Are you lost?" he asked, looking you up and down.

Karen put her hands in her pockets and answered calmly:

"If you've got drugs, we're not."

The guy narrowed his eyes.

"You cops?"

Karen shrugged.

"What does it matter? We just want a few grams."

The young man frisked you lightly (without touching too much) and finally nodded.

"That'll be 80 dollars."

Karen pulled out the cash without hesitation and handed it over. Then, lowering her voice, she added:

"And a quiet spot upstairs."

She gave him a few more bills. The guy counted the money, nodded, and handed over a small baggie of cocaine and two pills. "Second floor. Room at the end. Don't bother anyone."

You climbed the stairs in silence. The second floor was even worse than the first: drugged people sprawled on the floor, some moaning, others completely unconscious. The atmosphere was depressing and heavy.

"How depressing..." you murmured without any real pity.

Karen didn't answer. She kept walking, checking every person she saw, until she stopped in front of a man who seemed a little more conscious than the rest. She knelt in front of him and pulled out the baggie of cocaine and the pills.

"If you tell me where Jasper Evans is, I'll give you this," she offered in a low voice.

The man looked at her with suspicion, but before he could answer, a voice sounded from behind you:

"And what the hell do you care where Jasper Evans is?"

You both turned around. It was him. Jasper Evans was standing in the doorway of one of the rooms, looking at you with clear annoyance. He looked weary, with dark semi-circles under his eyes.

"Everybody out," he ordered loudly. "Get out, come on!"

The people on the floor began to get up slowly, dazed, and filed out of the room. Jasper stared at the two of you intently.

"Who are you and what the hell do you want?"

Karen got to her feet slowly, keeping her hands visible. "We just want to talk..." she said calmly. "That's all."

Jasper took a step forward, clearly tense.

At that moment, someone from behind Karen lunged at her and grabbed her by the throat, starting to choke her. Karen reacted quickly, elbowing him hard in the stomach, but the guy didn't completely let go.

Without thinking too much, you stepped closer and punched him in the face as hard as you could. The man let go of Karen and stumbled back, cursing.

Jasper tensed up and took a step toward you, clearly ready to fight.

But then... he appeared.

The same figure in black who had saved you before entered through the broken window at the back of the room. He moved swiftly, flanked Jasper from behind, and immobilized him, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him back. Jasper struggled, but the man in black was quicker and stronger.

The fight was brief but violent. Jasper tried to hit him, but received a knee to the stomach that knocked the wind out of him. The man in black shoved him against the wall and held him there.

Karen straightened up, coughing and bringing a hand to her throat, while she looked at you with surprise.

"Get on the ground..." the man in black spoke, but Jasper refused. "I said sit down," he ordered again, firmly. Jasper resisted, trying to struggle. But the man didn't allow it. With a quick and precise move, he threw him to the floor, put him in a hold, and pinned him face down. Jasper tried to get up, but received a dry punch to the face that left him dazed.

The silence that followed was heavy.

You both stared at him, still amazed at the way he had entered. Karen was the first to react. She stepped closer and asked, in a softer tone than usual:

"Are you okay?" Karen asked, toward him.

You turned your head toward her, frowning. The question had struck you as strange. Too concerned for someone who supposedly didn't know him. "Do you know him?" you asked, staring at her fixedly.

Karen shot you a quick look, as if she realized too late what she had said. She opened her mouth to answer but didn't manage to.

In the end, she raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Damn... okay," she said, nervously. "You knew his location, didn't you? I guess you already knew he was here. So... what were you waiting for?"

The masked man didn't answer right away. He kept Jasper pinned against the floor, but turned his head slightly toward Karen.

"That's none of your business," he replied in a low, firm voice.

You, who had been looking from one to the other, frowned.

"Wait a minute... Were you two already in cahoots?" you asked, looking first at Karen and then at the figure in black.

No one answered you.

Without letting go of Jasper, he spoke again. This time his voice was colder:

"First you should explain to me what the hell she's doing here." He gestured toward you with a slight nod of his head.

Karen glanced at you for a second, clearly uncomfortable, and then looked back at Daredevil.

"She's helping me," she said, though it sounded more like an excuse than a real explanation. "She knows things about Fisk. And... she wanted to get out of the church. I wasn't going to leave her there."

Daredevil was silent for a few seconds. The atmosphere grew more tense.

"This isn't a game, Karen. Bringing someone else here... was a mistake." Later, he added, "And I specifically told you not to leave the church."

Karen frowned, but she didn't look down.

"She can help. And she's already here. There's no turning back now."

He bit her lip, not quite believing it. "So what was your plan?"

"We were going to take him to the Bulletin, and her too..." she pointed at you. "We record it, let them testify in front of witnesses, and... that's it," she said, before adding, "Besides, I'm sure my editor will want to hear it in person."

Without further preamble, he grabbed Jasper by the shoulders. "Wake up, Evans," he said, shoving him onto a sofa. "You're in luck. You're going to have a choice. First option: I call the FBI. And Fisk kills you before you can tell them how you got out of prison. Second: you tell this reporter what you did for him, and you get the hell out of Dodge."

"N-no, I can't..." he replied, his nose bleeding.

"Great, first option—..."

"No! If I do that, they'll kill my son!" Evans confessed. He jerked his head toward his son (who was exactly the one who had sold you the drugs). "I left my son without a father and now... he's into this. If I go back to prison, he'll end up sharing a cell with me soon enough, or worse..."

Karen knelt in front of him, serious. "Either Fisk goes back to prison, or a lot of innocent people are going to die. Tell the truth to my newspaper, and we'll let you and your son go far away... If not, I'll publish the article anyway, as if you had talked."

"That would get us both killed..." Evans said, looking at her.

"Your choice."

You stayed back, watching them in silence. For the first time since you had started getting involved in all this, you realized something:

Karen and the man in black could be just as cold and calculating as you. Their hands didn't shake when it came to pressuring someone, even if it meant putting a child in danger. There was no mercy in their eyes. Only purpose.

No one spoke for a few seconds.

Dex, on the other hand, after his suspension, your abandonment, and Julie's, had decayed terribly. He was in his apartment, his eyes swollen and watery, lost. In his right hand, he held a plastic bag, heading toward the table. He sat down slowly, his gaze vacant. He grabbed his medications and dumped them into the bag, then clasped his hands together, staring straight ahead.

The flies returned to his head.

His hand went to his pocket, pulling out his own gun. And suddenly, he heard Julie's voice.

(Brooklyn Suicide Prevention, can I help you? Oh, hello, Dex. Are you going to kill yourself? How are you planning to do it? Do you have a weapon? Don't worry... It's not your fault... It's not your fault... The world doesn't want you... The world doesn't want you... I don't want you... It's not your fault... Don't worry...)

(Do you know where to aim? You see how alone you are... Do you know where to aim?)

He squeezed his eyes shut, was about to pull the trigger until...His phone rang. He dropped the gun immediately, breathing raggedly, tears in his eyes.

He looked at the phone twice before carefully picking it up and holding it to his ear. "Hello..." he spoke, his voice flat.

"My mother passed away while I was in prison..." Fisk spoke. "Among her personal effects, there was a shoebox with my name on it. A kind of memory box... She kept happy memories of my life in it. The gifts I gave her when I was small. Newspaper clippings... And the hammer." He revealed. "The instrument that caused my father's death. I thought at first she had thrown it away... But she was proud of who I was. Of what I had done." He paused briefly. "She... accepted me, without shame. That's exactly what you need. Someone to accept you without shame."

Dex's face changed completely.

And I accept you," Fisk added. "I've sent you a gift... An opportunity to be yourself. And if you take it, unlike the other people in your life, I will never... abandon you." He paused again. "The choice is yours," he said, before hanging up.

And just then, a few seconds later, someone knocked on his door. Dex got up, gun in hand, moving slowly toward the door. Carefully, he placed the gun against it before opening it.

It was Felix.

"The car is waiting for you, sir. Will you come with me, please?"

Dex stared at him for several seconds, the pistol still in his hand. His breathing was still ragged. He looked back, toward the plastic bag full of pills and the gun he had almost used.

Then he looked back at Felix.

And he took a step outside his apartment

....

You were already at the Bulletin with Karen, alongside Evans. The plan was that, after him, you were going to speak freely about your case and give any leads on Fisk.

Elsewhere in the office, far away, were Matt and Foggy. You didn't know they were there, having been with Karen the whole time.

Ellison's office was in semi-darkness, lit only by the glow of computers and a desk lamp. Jasper Evans was sitting in front of the desk, his elbows on his knees and his gaze downcast. He still had traces of dried blood on his nose.Karen was standing off to one side, arms crossed. You were seated in a chair somewhat apart, watching everything in silence.

Ellison, Karen's boss, was pacing back and forth in the office while looking over some papers. "Good," Ellison said, stopping in front of Jasper. "We're going to do this fast and clean. You're going to record your statement. Everything you know about Wilson Fisk and how he paid you to stab him in prison. Once we have your testimony recorded and signed, we'll publish. Understood?"

Jasper nodded weakly, but didn't look up.

Karen glanced at you for a second and then focused back on Jasper."Whenever you're ready," she said to Ellison.

Ellison nodded and activated the recorder on the desk. The small red LED lit up."Start whenever you like, Evans. Tell everything from the beginning."

Jasper opened his mouth to speak...

And then the lights went out.Everything went dark in an instant. The hum of the computers died. The only remaining light was the faint glow from the hallway windows.

Evans frowned."What the hell...?"

You all got to your feet. Something was wrong, very wrong. From the main floor of the Bulletin, you heard a thud, then another. And then... a scream.

Karen immediately started rummaging in her bag for the gun, aiming it at the door.

"Everyone behind me..." she whispered, though you could see her hands were shaking.

"What's going on?" you asked, positioning yourself behind her, just like the others. You stayed like that for several minutes, listening to thuds and screams. And even objects being thrown around. At one point, the door opened, only to reveal Foggy entering, looking somewhat scared himself.

Karen immediately hugged him, worried about him. You all stared at the door in silence, listening as the chaos drew closer. The thuds and screams were nearer now.

You stayed behind Karen, your heart pounding. Something inside you told you this was no coincidence. That whoever was out there... was here for something. Or for someone.

Jasper Evans was completely pale, leaning against the wall. He looked ready to pass out.

Foggy looked at Karen with a serious expression. "We have to get out of here. Now."

But before anyone could answer... The office door opened again.

This time, slowly.

And the figure that entered made the air freeze in the room. Dressed in red, with horns, and grinning with blood around his mouth.

Daredevil.

But he wasn't the same as before. He was different, he seemed... colder. Karen raised the gun again, pointing it directly at him.

"Don't sho—..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

Daredevil, with a quick and precise motion, flicked a pen he was holding in his hand. The object struck Karen's fingers with force, making her drop the gun. She let out a strangled cry of pain.

Foggy, without hesitation, stepped between everyone and launched himself at Daredevil, throwing two quick punches. But the blows barely moved him. Daredevil looked at him for a second... and returned a single brutal punch that sent him flying against the wall. Foggy fell to the floor, dazed and unable to get up.

Before anyone could react, Daredevil grabbed another pen from the desk and threw it with precision. The object embedded itself in Ellison's stomach, who fell backward with a cry of pain, clutching the wound.

You tried to crouch to grab the gun Karen had dropped, but Daredevil was already walking toward you. His presence was so intimidating that you instinctively backed away alongside Karen and Jasper.

He bent down calmly, picked up the gun from the floor without looking at you even once, and straightened up slowly. He aimed the weapon directly at Karen, who stood frozen, her eyes wide.

For a second, it looked like he was going to shoot her. But at the last moment, he shifted the barrel slightly... and fired.

The shot echoed loudly inside the office.

Jasper Evans took the bullet to the head and fell backward instantly, dead before he hit the ground.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daredevil ejected the magazine from the gun with calm and dropped it to the floor. Then he walked over to Karen, who was still on the floor, staring down at her with that twisted grin.

"Hello, Karen," he said in a calm voice, almost cheerful. "It's good to see you again."

Karen stared at him with a mix of horror and rage, but she couldn't say anything.

Daredevil stood looking at her for a moment longer... until he slowly turned his head toward you.

His eyes locked onto yours through the mask. He said nothing, just watched you. His expression had changed; he wasn't smiling, but rather neutral, or at least that's what you could see through his lips.

The look lasted several seconds, long enough for a shiver to run down your spine.

Then, without another word, he turned and started walking toward the office door, as if he had already finished whatever he had come to do.

You were a little paralyzed. Did you know him from somewhere?

No. That was impossible, wasn't it?

Karen immediately ran out of there in horror, heading somewhere else in the Bulletin, in search of someone. Foggy was still on the floor, dazed. Ellison was losing blood and possibly unconscious. And Evans... well, he was dead.

You were alone.

You looked at the open door. It was your chance to get out as soon as possible, before the FBI and everyone else arrived. You didn't hesitate; you started walking toward the door, ignoring the dead bodies, but something stopped you.

In the distance, you could see Karen, kneeling, perhaps sobbing as she looked at that masked man, who was lying there, absolutely wounded.

You stared at them for a few seconds before heading for the emergency exit. You went down the stairs carefully, until you opened the exterior door, feeling the cold night air.

Now you were free, completely. You could go anywhere you wanted without anyone stopping you.

And the first thing you wanted to do was see Dex. You figured he was at his apartment.

You started walking quickly down the side alley, moving away from the Bulletin.

You didn't get far.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed your arm with brutal force and shoved you against the brick wall. The impact was sharp and painful. Before you could scream, another hand gripped your jaw roughly, forcing you to look up while a body pinned you completely against the wall.

It was him.

The man in red. The same one who had entered the office. Now, he had you immobilized. His fingers were squeezing your jaw tightly, almost painfully, while his other hand pinned your wrist to the brick. You could feel his whole body trembling.

You froze completely; you didn't understand anything. Why was he doing this to you?

Daredevil (Dex) was breathing raggedly behind the mask. He seemed to be at his limit. His fingers on your jaw trembled slightly, as if he were holding himself back from doing something worse. He was watching you with a sick intensity, as if trying to convince himself you were really there.

And suddenly, he said your name. "...it's you?" he murmured, his voice broken. He released your wrist slowly, placing both hands on your cheeks, stroking you with his thumbs, smearing you with blood. "No... you're not a hallucination..."

His thumbs pressed into your cheeks. You could feel his voice breaking, little by little, as if he were holding back the urge to cry.

"No, I don't understand... I thought— that you had left... I thought— I thought you had abandoned me..."

You tried to move, but he pushed you harder against the wall. His breathing became more erratic.

"Don't move," he said, though his voice sounded more like a plea than an order. "Please... don't move."

The silence that followed was thick. The only sounds were his ragged breathing and the distant wail of sirens.

Then, your mind began to connect the pieces, along with those words he was letting out in front of you. It could only be one person, surely.

"Dex...? Is that you?"

The moment you said his name, his whole body tensed as if he'd been stabbed with a knife. His fingers on your jaw froze. For a second, it looked like he was going to break apart completely.

Dex slowly dropped his head until his forehead rested against your shoulder. You could feel the tears falling from beneath the mask, soaking your shirt. His body trembled uncontrollably.

"Yes..." he answered, his voice shattered. "Yes, it's me."

He stayed like that for several seconds, breathing irregularly. He seemed on the verge of total collapse.

"You shouldn't have been there..." he whispered, his voice full of guilt and desperation. "You shouldn't have seen what I did. I... I didn't want you to see me like this."

Your hands went to his suit, caressing him softly, trying to soothe him.

Suddenly, he heard the sirens getting closer. He tensed up again.

"We can't stay here," he said urgently, though his voice was still shaking. "The FBI is going to come. If they find me... if they find you with me..."

He pulled back a little and looked at you with his reddened, desperate eyes.

"Come with me. To my apartment. Please. I'll... I'll explain everything there. But we have to go now."

He didn't wait for an answer. He let go of your cheeks, but grabbed your wrist firmly and started walking, pulling you along. He wasn't treating you with violence anymore, but with an almost sick desperation, as if he feared you'd leave him alone again.

You walked for several minutes, running. And when you arrived at his building, you climbed the fire escape quickly, almost at a run. He opened the window to his apartment and ushered you in first. As soon as he closed the window, he leaned against it, breathing heavily while his mind raced.

(I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil... I'm Daredevil...)

The apartment was a disaster. Everything was broken. Dex ran his hands over his face, trembling, and finally removed the mask. Without it, he looked destroyed. His eyes were swollen and full of tears.

He stood there, not daring to come too close, and spoke in a low, broken voice:

"I know you have a lot of questions. And you have every right to hate me right now. But... please, don't leave. Not yet. If you go... I don't know what I'll do."

He looked you directly in the eyes, more vulnerable than you had ever seen him.

"Stay. And let me explain. But first... let me do one thing..."

Suddenly, you saw him pull out one of his old cassette tapes from the shelf. He put the headphones on and pressed play. Though you couldn't hear what the tape was saying, you recognized the calm voice of his therapist.

Without saying a single word to you, Dex went over to the corner where the vacuum cleaner was, plugged it in, and started to clean.

You watched him, bewildered.

You stood there for several minutes, watching him without knowing what to say. Dex vacuumed up the shards of glass from the floor with concentration, moving from one side of the apartment to the other as if in a trance. Every time he found a larger piece of glass, he would bend down, pick it up carefully, and put it in a garbage bag he had taken out. All with an almost ritualistic precision.

He didn't seem angry. Or sad. Or upset.

He seemed... empty.

At one point, he stopped in front of a broken mirror that was still hanging crookedly on the wall. He stood staring at it for several seconds, the vacuum cleaner still in his hand. Then, very carefully, he took it down and set it on the floor to continue cleaning around it.

You kept watching him, growing more and more uncomfortable. The contrast was too sharp. Minutes before, he had been holding you against a wall, trembling and crying, asking you not to leave. And now he was vacuuming his apartment as if nothing had happened.

Dex, realizing you were staring at him, took off one earphone and looked at you over his shoulder. His expression was strangely calm, though his eyes were still red.

"I usually... clean when things get out of control," he said in a low voice, almost like an apology. "It helps me think..."

He was quiet for a second, gripping the vacuum hose tightly. And then he put the earphone back in, continuing.

You sat down gently on the sofa, watching him as you tried to calm yourself after this whole day. Everything he was doing now felt strange, too strange.

In the end, you couldn't take it anymore.

"Dex," you called out, your voice firmer than you expected.

He didn't hear you. Or pretended not to. He kept running the vacuum over the same corner over and over.

You stood up from the sofa and took a step toward him.

"Dex," you repeated, louder this time. "Stop."

This time he heard you. He stopped, though he didn't turn off the vacuum. He took off one earphone and looked at you with a confused expression, as if he didn't understand why you were interrupting him.

"Stop cleaning," you said, looking at him directly. "And take off the headphones, please... I want you to talk to me. For real. Not while you're doing this."

Dex stood still, gripping the vacuum hose tightly. It looked like your request had thrown him off. His fingers tensed around the plastic tube.

"Sorry..." he murmured, setting the vacuum aside before looking at you. You looked at him, and slowly placed your hands on his cheeks, caressing him, before pulling him into an embrace.

At first, Dex went completely rigid. As if he didn't know how to react. His arms remained at his sides for several seconds, trembling. Then, little by little, one of his hands came up and grabbed your clothes tightly, as if he was afraid you might let go. And then the other, sliding beneath your back.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you..." you murmured, feeling a little better.

"What happened to your face?" he asked, pointing to the bandage on your nose and the dressing on your arm.

"Oh, it's nothing," you smiled. "They tried... to attack me, yeah. But I'm fine, I promise," you added, looking at him.

Dex tensed slightly, but he didn't take his hands from your face. "Do you know who it was?" he asked, in a lower tone.

You stared at him for several seconds. You could feel him watching you, waiting for an answer. For a moment, you thought about telling him the truth. Telling him it was Fisk who had sent someone to kill you. But something stopped you.

You looked into his reddened eyes, the way he was still holding you as if he was terrified you would disappear, and you realized this wasn't the right moment. Not after everything that had happened tonight, not when he was so fragile and at the same time so convinced that Fisk was the only thing holding him together. In the end, you shook your head.

"I'm not sure..." you lied. "Everything happened so fast. I just know someone wanted me dead. But I was able to get through it, without any help."

Dex frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer, but he didn't press further. He seemed too tired to push harder right now.

"So... did you kill them?"

"Yes," you confirmed. "I killed them. And then I got rid of the bodies."

Dex looked down for a moment, processing what you had told him. His thumbs kept stroking your cheeks gently "I'm sorry I wasn't there..." he murmured, his voice low. "You must have had a really hard time..."

"Pretty much... I couldn't see you all day..." you said. "But now, none of that matters. We're together, aren't we?"

He nodded softly, looking at you.

"What do you say we get rid of this, and go to sleep?" You pointed at the suit. "You must be exhausted, I imagine..." you said, affectionately stroking his cheeks.

Dex looked down at his own hands, as if only now realizing he still had Jasper's blood on them. He frowned slightly, but didn't say anything about it. He just nodded again. "Yeah... let's go."

He pulled away from you slowly and went to the bathroom without saying much more. You heard him turn on the tap and wash his hands for quite a long time. When he came out, he had already taken off the bloodstained suit and was wearing only a clean black t-shirt and short black pants. He still looked tired, but at least seemed a little more present.

You, meanwhile, started to wash your face with a damp cloth, rubbing it over your cheeks, wiping off the dried blood. Then you went to the bedroom, watching him.

When you got into bed, he did the same, though he sat on the edge for a moment, staring at the floor. It seemed like his mind was still far away.

In the end, he lay down beside you, but he didn't touch you. He stayed on his back, staring at the ceiling with his eyes open.

The silence stretched on for several minutes.

This time, you didn't say goodnight to each other. There was something strange between you. Maybe it was just because of this day.

Your head turned toward him, watching him from behind. You looked back at the ceiling, with nothing to say.

Several more seconds passed.

Then, very slowly, Dex turned his body and looked at you. His eyes were bright, though he wasn't crying anymore. He seemed exhausted to the bone. Without a word, he reached out an arm and pulled you toward him clumsily. He pressed you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you. His grip was strong, almost desperate, as he rested his head against your neck.

You were a little surprised by the change, but you didn't pull away. On the contrary. Slowly, one of your hands went up to his hair and the other settled on the nape of his neck, stroking him softly. Dex tensed at first at the contact, but seconds later, he relaxed against you.Little by little, exhaustion overtook you both, finally able to sleep, in peace, together.

You still couldn't believe you were headed to Alabama; the "Welcome to Bluebell" sign was already coming into view, little by little. It was hard to believe it had all started just two weeks ago.

Your phone had rung in your city studio, and on the other end of the line, someone with a deep, enthusiastic voice was speaking. "Hello! How are you? I'm Lavon Hayes. I played in the NFL with your uncle. He told me... if there's anyone who can save the pride of a small town in Alabama, it's you." He explained, between laughs, that Bluebell was in the middle of a diplomatic and artistic war with the neighboring town of Fillmore.

At first you hesitated, because it was far from your city, and you didn't know if the town would be to your liking. But Lavon wasn't going to give up that easily (of course), and he encouraged you to come, even offering you a deal. He'd pay for a comfortable cabin and your materials, whatever you needed, as long as you showed up at the town events for the decorations and art.

After a brief negotiation between the two of you, you finally accepted with pleasure. After all, maybe leaving the city would give you a breath of fresh air, and maybe it wasn't so bad to step out of your comfort zone.

So here you are, driving through Bluebell, taking in the sweltering atmosphere and the nature all around. It was incredible, and really beautiful, truth be told.

Lavon had sent you an address, where his mansion was. As you parked, you took a good look before getting out. It was a completely white house, big... maybe with lots of rooms, but the first thing you'd noticed was the exaggerated heat everywhere, which made you take off your jacket, leaving you in a black tank top, which honestly didn't improve the situation, because the heat was still just as bad.

You were fanning yourself with your hand as you walked up to the door, but Lavon opened it before you even knocked, as if he'd been watching you from the window.

"Welcome!" he said, coming down the steps two at a time. "I was starting to think the folks from Fillmore had kidnapped you." He added, laughing. "Here, let me help you with that."

"Oh, are you sure? It's too heav—..."

You watched as he lifted almost all your material and luggage effortlessly, with a smile. Your jaw dropped before you closed your mouth. "Oh—oh, okay, sure." You said, nervously.

You grabbed a loose suitcase and started walking at his pace.

"Well, welcome to Bluebell, the jewel of Alabama. I know the trip's been long and exhausting... but I need to give you at least a tourist guide so you don't get lost," he said as you kept walking. "I don't want you wandering around alone and ending up in a lake with alligators."

"There are alligators?" you asked, in disbelief.

"Believe me, if you get into a lake, you'll find alligators. I love 'em." He confessed, enthusiastically. "In fact, I've got one as a pet. He's a cutie..."

You nodded, not knowing what to say. Having an alligator as a pet wasn't the best idea to you, especially if Lavon treated it like a defenseless little puppy.

"This is the plantation, my house, as you've seen," he added with pride. "If you go past those oak trees, you'll find the barn, which will be your studio. Don't worry, no animals will bother you. And then..." He pointed or tried to point to another spot. "That little cabin over there, that's your new home for the next few months."

You took a look from a distance. It was plain, rustic, wood on the outside. You liked that it was somewhat big, and yet, what scared you a little was the lake right next to it. And just as Lavon had said about the alligators, now you imagined them attacking and devouring you at night. A wonderful start.

(Oh gosh... the cabin is so pretty! It's like living in "Secret Window"... though if I'm going to go crazy from isolation, I at least hope my neighbor looks like Johnny Depp, I wish.)

Lavon had no idea of the state you were in; he simply kept talking enthusiastically. "The cabin's on natural land, very peaceful. And you won't be alone, of course. Next door you've got another cabin, Wade's, Wade Kinsella. He's, uh..." He tried to find a word that wouldn't sound too rude. "He's a good guy," he said simply, before adding, "Although it's hard to get him to work sometimes. One thing, if you hear music or people shouting from his cabin, tell him the Mayor has requested absolute silence. Seriously, it works 90% of the time!"

You pressed your lips together, filing that information in your head. "So, is he a musician or something?" you asked curiously.

"Musician?" He looks at you and shakes his head. "Not exactly... Let's just say he plays more with... moods." He laughs. That made you frown, not quite understanding. And he adds, "Well, he's got an old guitar that barely stays in tune, if that counts. But the noise is usually of a different nature, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Nature." You said, with confidence and a smile.

(I understood nothing.)

Lavon held your gaze for a moment, with a half-amused smile, as if he knew perfectly well you were faking it. But instead of explaining, he just gave you a couple of pats on the shoulder and added, "You'll figure it out, don't worry. Come on, I'll show you the cabin."

Lavon kept walking, now pointing to a cabin just a few yards beyond yours, a little more... "fixed up," though it still kept that Southern touch. "And here," Lavon stopped, gesturing broadly, "we have your other neighbor. Dr. Zoe Hart. She just arrived from New York a little while ago. She's very smart, very urban, and if you have any medical problems, she's the one to see, believe me."

You nod again, watching him as you think. (Oh... she's new too. I'll go see her later; I'm sure she's feeling pretty lonely.)

"I'm sure she's lovely," you manage to say, smiling at him. "I'll go see her later."

You walked a couple of minutes, until you climbed the steps to your new home. He handed you the key, letting you be the first to open the door.

"If Wade crosses the line, just mention my name and tell him the Mayor's looking for volunteers to clean the barn. You'll see how fast he shuts up," he comments, watching you open the door. You let in a gust of cool air that, at least for a moment, relieved you from the stifling heat.

"You've got a fully equipped kitchen, with the basics. A bed, bathroom, living room... You'll be comfortable, I assure you," he said with confidence. He let out a soft sigh as he let you explore on your own, leaving your things in the living room while you wandered through the cabin at your own pace.

"Seriously, thanks for coming. Take today to settle in. And if you want, tomorrow I'll take you to the Rammer Jammer for breakfast so you can meet the rest of the locals. How does that sound?"

You opened your mouth, turning around slowly, with a smile. "Are there pancakes?" you ask, with enthusiasm.

"Oh yeah, there sure are." He smiles at your enthusiasm.

You smile back, and before he leaves, you remember something you'd prepared in a bag. "Wait!" you say, rummaging through your things until you find a decorated little box. You hold it up and open it carefully: cookies. You'd made them for yourself, and if the occasion arose, for others. It's a good time to introduce yourself kindly to the neighbors!

"Here, I made them. I hope you don't have any allergies; they're almond butter." You hold out the box with a charming smile.

Lavon stares at the box for a few seconds before smiling and grabbing an exaggerated handful. "Thank you so much! They look really good." And he tries one; indeed, they were delicious, since you hear him moan with satisfaction, closing his eyes. "I wasn't wrong," he adds, mouth full.

You smile back. "I'm glad you like them!"

He waves goodbye, going down the steps of your cabin as he finishes enjoying the cookie. You, on the other hand, were left alone.

You got to work unpacking your things. First, you added several cushions on a whim; you wanted to give the cabin a touch of yourself. Then, the rest was clothes and a few accessories, like little flower pots, a childhood photo of yourself, and your paints.

At one point, you looked out the window. In front of you was the lake, and everything else was a thick, slightly flowery garden. To your left was Zoe's cabin, just as Lavon had said. That's when you remembered you were going to visit her, and since the cookies weren't finished, what better than to offer her some too?

You took a deep breath, straightening your shirt before stepping outside, walking and feeling the earth beneath your sneakers. You carefully climbed her steps, trying not to stain the wood, and knocked on the door softly.

Zoe didn't take long to open it, looking you over.

"Yes?" she asked, arching an eyebrow and looking you up and down.

You felt small for a moment, but it quickly passed because of the scent of butter. You held the box out a little, showing a kind smile, introducing yourself by name for a few seconds.

"I thought I'd stop by! Lavon told me you'd also arrived a few days ago, so... since we're both new, I thought I'd introduce myself. I brought cookies." You say, showing them. "They're butter and almond."

There's a pause between the two of you. Zoe slowly narrows her eyes, with some distrust. "Is this a trap?" She asks directly.

"Excuse me?"

"Do they have poison or laxatives?" She adds another dramatic question.

"Uhhhh... no? No, they don't." You answer, with a nervous laugh.

"What do you want in return?" She asks again.

"Well... nothing, really. I just wanted to share my cookies with you, because, well, you're new. And I am too." You point to yourself. "Besides, they're really good, seriously." You hold up a cookie. "Come on, open your mouth."

"No way!"

You started moving the cookie like an airplane toward her. Zoe quickly swatted at you. "No, you're not going to poison me!" she said, pressing her lips together.

"I told you they're not poisonous!" you insist.

"That's exactly what a poisoner would say!" She keeps swatting at you.

You wrestled for another second, you trying to bring the cookie closer, her turning her face away as if it were a syringe. Until Zoe suddenly stopped. She looked at you. Looked at the cookie. Looked at you again, and let out a slight sigh, stepping back.

"Fine, fine. I'll try it, but just so you know... this will be the definitive test of my death."

"It's... just a cookie, nothing more. Besides, I'm not a murderer! I never would be," you defend yourself.

"Tell that to the judge."

You opened your mouth, offended and frowning. But you didn't say anything, because Zoe grabbed the cookie, examining it for a couple of seconds before taking a bite. She groaned, frowning a little, and then took another bite, relaxing.

"Oh, God..." she murmurs, in a sigh of satisfaction. You blinked twice, watching her. "Okay, it's good... really good... Would you hate me if I asked for another one?" she asks.

"Not at all." You smile, and grab another cookie to hold out to her.

She stepped aside, looking at you. "Come in," she said with a sigh, snatching the cookie. "Come in before the humidity in this place melts my hair completely..."

When you crossed the threshold, you realized you weren't the only one dealing with moving, although Zoe's method was much more... chaotic. There were half-open cardboard boxes everywhere, designer stilettos mixed with internal medicine books, and a couple of haute couture dresses hanging from the rustic wooden beams. A ceiling fan spun at full speed, making a rhythmic noise that barely moved the thick, hot air.

"Sorry for the mess," Zoe commented, hopping over a box to reach the kitchen counter. "I'm still trying to understand how people survive here... By the way, I'm Zoe. Zoe Hart." She gives you a little smile from the kitchen.

You introduce yourself again, smiling back. You leave the little box on the table, looking curiously at the medical brochures. "A pleasure. And yeah... the heat is hellish, I can't stand it. Lavon told me I'd get used to it, but I think he just didn't want me to run off north."

Zoe let out a dry laugh as she organized her things.

"Run off north?" She shook her head, pouring herself a glass of water. "Believe me, I was about to do it the first day." She takes a sip. "But, looking on the bright side... now I'm not the only one."

You settled into a chair, watching her. "So what exactly brought you out here?" she asks.

"Oh, to the town, you mean?" you answered. "Well, it's a pretty funny story, actually. It turns out Lavon is an old friend of my uncle's; they played together in the NFL years ago. Apparently they kept in touch, and when Lavon panicked because he urgently needed an artist to save the design of the Founder's Day parade float... well, my uncle recommended me."

You made a small pause.

"Lavon painted the situation as if it were a state emergency," you continued, moving your hands with playful drama. "So... ta-da! Here I am!"

Zoe was silent for a while, processing the information in her head. "The Founder's Day parade? I see." She nods, then sighs, resting her elbows on the table, placing her hands on her cheeks as she let out a sigh. "I wish I could be there... These last few days everyone's done nothing but make fun of me for confusing a tick bite with a disease..." she huffs.

"Didn't Lavon ask you to get on board or something?" you ask curiously.

"Of course he did. But... I turned him down." She hisses, squeezing her eyes shut, as well as her mouth, as if she regretted it. "I told him, well, that I didn't like festivals... But now, I need to go. I need people to see me, so they don't think I'm some... extravagant New Yorker. I want to be part of the community," she says, with some sweetness. Until she adds, "And that way I get clients for my clinic, of course."

You nod slowly. "Well... then... you can come with me if you want when I'm preparing things. I'm sure Lavon will love for you to participate; besides, he was the one who gave you the opportunity." You smile.

Just as you were about to add something else, a sound comes from outside, like a hammer blow. You frown, looking toward the window from where you were. Zoe, on the other hand, closed her eyes for a moment, her patience at its limit, lowering her head as her bangs slid across the table.

"Here we go..." she murmurs. She looks up, beginning to walk toward the window, taking a look.

You joined her at the window, pulling the curtain aside a little with your fingers. At first you saw nothing, just the orange light of sunset filtering through the trees and the reflection of the lake in the distance.

And then you saw him.

He was next to the cabin next door, leaning over what seemed to be his car. He had a broad back, his shoulders marked under a white T-shirt sticking to his body from sweat. The hammer went up and down with a precise rhythm, and the dry sound of the blow reached you muffled by the glass.

"There he is," Zoe crosses her arms.

"That's Wade?" you manage to ask.

And she nods, without taking her eyes off him. You didn't answer anything else, because just at that moment, he straightened up, wiped his forearm across his forehead to dry the sweat, and then, with a single fluid movement, pulled the shirt off over his head.

Time stopped for you.

You know those iconic American movies, where there's always a slow-motion scene? Well, that's exactly what your mind was projecting.

(Oh my God.)

He was golden from the sun, with the muscles of his back and arms defined not by the gym, just from hard work, literally. He wiped the back of his neck with his shirt, and then let it drop onto the porch without any care.

Your face was getting closer and closer to the glass. You couldn't help it. It was like a magnet. Like a National Geographic documentary about Southern fauna in its natural habitat.

(A little closer. Just a little more. He won't notice. He's not looking at me. God, those arms...)

Zoe watched you for a few seconds, frowning at your reaction, and laughed a little. "Yeah... the same thing happened to me the first week. You'll get over it. I think..."

You weren't paying attention to her words, honestly; you were just watching him closer, until...

BANG!

"Ouch!" You managed to say, putting your hand on your forehead, stepping back in embarrassment. What if the noise had now caught his attention?

You crouched down by instinct, hand on the floor, rubbing your forehead. "Did he see me, did he see me...?"

"I don't know, shut up a moment," Zoe murmurs, looking out the window.

From outside, Wade's voice was heard, with a sarcastic tone, as he approached the steps.

"Doctor! Was that your head against the glass? Because if so, you'd better go to the hospital, in case you fractured your skull."

"I didn't fall! My head is perfectly fine, thanks."

Wade paused, smiling sideways.

"So, are you spying on me? Because if you wanted to see me without a shirt, you just had to ask."

"That's disgusting... And besides, it's not necessary. Trust me, I've already seen all of you, and it wasn't that impressive."

What?

Wade let out a short laugh, leaning against the railing. "That's not what you said in the car, doctor."

WHAT?

Your head turned toward Zoe —well, toward her ankles, which was what you could see from the floor— with your mouth open. Zoe and Wade? Something had happened between them? Oh, she had so much to tell you.

"That... that was a drunken mistake," Zoe replied, crossing her arms. "I was desperate in my first days."

"Sure, desperation." He laughs under his breath. "That's why you called me three times afterward."

Zoe opened her mouth, but for the first time since you'd met her, no immediate comeback came out. You brought your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. The situation was too funny.

Taking advantage of the silence, Wade took another step toward the window. His voice sounded closer, clearer, as if he knew exactly where you were hiding.

"By the way, tell your friend she can get up. She's going to break her back."

Zoe turned to you immediately, without being discreet. You looked at her from below, and shook your head with a silent "no."

"I don't see anyone here," she replied, looking at him. "I'm alone. Can't you tell?"

He shakes his head, with that smile as he laughed. "Sure, sure... Tell her there's no need to hide. I'll introduce myself later, properly."

"Get lost," Zoe adds.

Wade raises his hands in surrender, delighted, and goes down the steps, going back to his business.

Zoe turns to you again. "You can get up now." You do so immediately, although you clumsily bump into a small table. You gently rub your head as you hear a sigh from her. "Do you want coffee? I'll explain this whole... matter."

You nod, heading with her to the kitchen. "Well, it all started on my first day, literally. It went horribly because no one in town took me seriously at the clinic. Besides, they thought I looked weird, which is absurd." She pauses, pouring coffee for both herself and you. "In the end... I got drunk and was in the street at nightfall, walking aimlessly. And he appeared... in a car, and what happened happened."

You drank slowly, watching her.

"Well, nothing really happened... No... we got to that point because..." she murmurs something you can't quite hear.

"What did you say?"

She murmurs something again.

"I can't understand you."

"I honked the horn with my butt," she repeats, embarrassed.

There's a brief silence between the two of you before you suppress a laugh, then start laughing out loud. You lower your head, covering your mouth with one hand, trying to stop the laughter, but it was impossible.

"I-I'm sorry, sorry!" you say, between laughs.

She rolls her eyes, not finding it very funny. "And besides... I was drunk! I regretted it immediately and left. Then, well, there were moments when I called him and stuff, but it never went anywhere because I'd regret it at the last moment..."

You nod, clearing your throat as you occasionally let out a few light laughs.

"But I don't like him. He's... irresponsible. Besides, he's slept with most of the girls, and he's very... lazy. He's awful. I'm sure, knowing now that you're new, he'll come after you."

"Oh... I see." You wave your hand. "But I wouldn't want to get into relationships now, or well, whatever that is. Right now, the important thing I have to do is 'work' for the Mayor and prepare for the float. I don't want distractions in my path. If he flirts with me, I'll ignore him."

"Well said." She raises her cup before drinking. "I wouldn't recommend getting involved, honestly, it's not worth it... Though I don't want to meddle in your life, of course. You're free to decide," she adds, to avoid misunderstandings.

You take another sip. "Yeah, don't worry. I won't do anything weird."

You continued talking calmly, until finally, at dusk, you decided to go home, saying goodbye to Zoe with a smile.

You went to the cabin, where you stayed until nightfall. You'd already settled everything, had dinner, put on your pajamas (shorts and a tank top), and brushed your teeth. You were about to go to bed, but something was bothering you.

It turned out that next door there was an incredibly loud noise you could hear from your window, like a guitar, plus music.

At first you tried to sleep, covering yourself under the blankets to not hear so much, but it was impossible. You stayed like that for several minutes, until you couldn't take it anymore.

You went down the steps carefully, barefoot, feeling the earth under your feet. And you followed the noise until you came to a cabin beside yours. Indeed, it was Wade's house. The closer you got, the more music you heard, and a couple of laughs, but you couldn't see anything. You knocked on the door, a little hard so it would be heard.

You waited several seconds, and nothing, so you knocked again, harder, waiting.

The door finally opens, revealing Wade behind it. He had a guitar hanging from him, looking at you. "Oh, look who it is." He smiles, looking you up and down again, without hiding it. "Nice pajamas."

"Thanks, uh..." You smile, frowning at that compliment. "Well, I came here because I need you to... turn down the volume in your house. I can't sleep."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." He raises his hands. "You don't introduce yourself after just arriving, and you're already giving me orders?"

"Well... that's true, sorry." You half-laugh. And you hold out your hand, about to introduce yourself. "I'm..."

"Don't tell me, you're the neighbor who was spying on me earlier." He smiles, not accepting your handshake.

You opened your mouth, and all you could manage was a nervous laugh. "Oh—well—uhm... No, I think you're mistaken. I wasn't spying on you, I don't know what you're talking about." You say, lowering your hand.

"Oh, no?" He puts his hand to his chest, feigning disappointment. "What a shame... And I thought my neighbor found me interesting..."

"Well, interesting..." You murmur, not finishing the sentence.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing." You shook your head. "Look, I just came here for you to turn down the volume, that's all. Could you do it, please?"

"Uh... no?" He says, frowning.

"No?" You repeat incredulously. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Not even a... I don't know, 'sorry, I'll turn it down now'?"

He smiles, as if he didn't care. "The thing is, I'm not sorry, really. It's Friday, and I'm here with my friends having fun."

(This man is impossible.)

You shake your head, unable to believe it. "Alright, good night. Sorry for bothering you." And you turn around, walking back toward your cabin.

"Hey."

You turned. Wade had stepped away from the doorframe, looking at you with a different expression, less mocking this time.

"I'll turn it down. I was joking," he adds.

"Really?" you ask, with bright eyes.

And he starts laughing. "No! Of course not," he says between laughs. "Alright, good night." And he goes into his house, closing the door.

Your jaw dropped at the sudden change. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable, that was all you could say in your head. You went back home, exhausted, and as you kept walking, you noticed there was less noise. Had he turned it down after all? you wondered. I mean, you could still hear the music, but it wasn't as loud as before, which was appreciated.

It seemed he had finally given in to your request.

You lay down gently in bed, able to sleep more comfortably now.

"I'm telling you, I saw a frog this morning!" you said, walking alongside Lavon through the streets. "I have to say it was really cute, but it almost jumped on my head," you add.

The morning had already passed; you'd woken up and the first thing you saw was a frog on your chest, literally. The best part was that it spent more than twenty minutes hopping around your house while you tried to catch it.

On this occasion, you'd put on a checkered tank top with straps, shorts, and sneakers.

"Well, I don't think that frog was poisonous," Lavon says, hands in his pockets.

You opened your mouth, a little scared. "There are poisonous ones around here?"

"Some, but don't worry, they don't show up often."

You look ahead, giving up. The route was calm; you could see three ladies sitting on a bench, watching you with curiosity because of your recent arrival, then talking among themselves. Then you could see children fluttering around the parks, playing. And at last, you arrived at the Rammer Jammer.

Upon entering, you took in the atmosphere. It smelled of bacon, literally. The rays of sunlight warmly illuminated the inside. You could already see three people at the bar, drinking coffee or waiting patiently for their drinks; in fact, you half-heard Lavon greeting people with warmth.

You sat at a table in the middle, watching him. "You already know what I'm going to order," you said, leaning your elbows on the table, smiling at him.

Right then a waitress, Shelley, came over cheerfully. Lavon ordered two plates of pancakes while your gaze drifted away. With your hand on your cheek, you kept observing the atmosphere.

Until you found him again. Him.

You opened your eyes for a moment. It was Wade again, but now, he was working behind the bar. Was he a waiter too? You'd imagined he didn't work, from what both Lavon and Zoe had told you.

"He works here too?" you say, looking at Lavon.

"He's got to earn a living somehow, don't you think?" he asks, watching you.

You look back at him from your seat. And as if by coincidence, his gaze falls on you, and he smiles. You smile back, before looking at Lavon, who was watching you with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" you ask, innocently.

"Oh, nothing," he answered, smiling at you.

You glanced back at Wade, then at Lavon twice, before looking at him again. "I'll be right back." You smile at Lavon before standing up.

You went over to the bar, leaning on it as you watched him bustle from one side to the other, attending to customers. Until when he finally has a free moment, he comes over to you. He slung the rag over his shoulder, offering a crooked smile.

"Well, well." He leaned on the bar, with his bare forearms on the wood, looking at you. "First you spy on me, then you come to my house, and now you're chasing me? I'm starting to think you like me."

You shake your head sweetly, laughing. "No, no, not at all. I came because Lavon invited me for pancakes... In any case, I came here just to thank you." You smile.

"Thank me?" He narrows his eyes, smiling at you. "What for?"

You frown for a few seconds. "Because you turned the volume down in the end. It was a nice detail."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He laughs, cleaning a glass.

"Oh... of course, it must have been the wind. My mistake." You raise your hands in surrender.

"The Alabama wind is very strong. Don't underestimate it." He put the glass down on the bar and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. "But since you've come to thank me for something I didn't do, don't you also want to formally introduce yourself? Last night you were left with your hand out and everything."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Right, I'm..."

"Wait." He lifted a finger, stopping you. Then, theatrically, he wiped his hand on the rag before shaking yours. "Now. Wade Kinsella, a pleasure."

You smiled, accepting his hand as you introduced yourself. His hand was warm and rough, and the handshake lasted maybe a second longer than strictly necessary.

"A pleasure, Wade," you replied, without looking away.

You glanced at Lavon for a moment and saw he was watching you —or rather, the two of you. Because your hands were still moving as if nothing had happened. You looked at your hands right away and let go delicately. And immediately you said goodbye to Wade, somewhat embarrassed. He simply waved with his usual smile, watching you as you sat back down.

Lavon raised an eyebrow while he watched you sit. "I'm not going to say anything about what I just saw," he says, starting to cut his pancakes.

You nod, also starting to cut them, eating alongside him. You had to change the subject quickly, because otherwise he'd start asking questions and you wouldn't like it. "Zoe told me she wants to join in on the float," you say, chewing.

"Oh yeah? I thought she didn't want to," he replies.

"Yeah, at first. But I talked to her yesterday, and she said she regretted it... So, can she join?"

"Of course, the more the merrier, really." He smiles.

The rest of breakfast passed without further incident. Lavon told you stories from his NFL days that you didn't ask for but enjoyed all the same, and when Shelley cleared the empty plates, you realized you'd eaten three pancakes without noticing.

When you left the Rammer Jammer, the morning heat was already starting to press. Lavon walked you back to the plantation and, before saying goodbye, pointed out the dirt path leading to the barn.

"It's all yours. If you need more materials, let me know. You can start whenever you want, although first you should wait for your partner, so I recommend you wait," he says, smiling at you.

You frown. "Partner?"

He laughs under his breath, like a child, as he turns around and starts walking to his house.

"Wait! What do you mean? Who is it?" you say out loud, trying to get his attention, but he says nothing. You sigh, and you don't see anyone around the barn. You suppose you'll have to go back to the cabin to rest and come back later. So yes, you did that.

A couple of hours later, when the sun was starting to go down a little, you decided to return to the barn. You'd changed clothes —an old T-shirt you didn't mind staining— and carried your paint box under your arm.

The barn had changed a bit; now there was some kind of platform in the middle, a mini truck with the back full of wires and wood... And among the straw, sunbathing, was your partner.

Wade. Again.

Seriously, who invited this guy?

"Wade?" you ask, narrowing your eyes from a distance, trying to see him, though the sun blinded you.

Wade looks up, putting a hand to his forehead to see you better. "Oh, if it isn't my partner." He gets up, brushing off his clothes and coming closer. "Good thing you came; I was just about to leave."

"What?" you ask. "Already? But we just saw each other a second ago. Besides..." you look around. "You haven't... done anything."

He frowns, indignant. "What do you mean I haven't done anything? I brought all this here. And that... exhausted me." He adds, with a touch of drama. "But back to what I was saying. I have to go to work again. There's... been a mishap with a coworker's shift, yeah."

You nod, believing him. "I see... Will you be here later then?"

"Oh, sure, sure. I'll be here later to help you, don't worry. Do you know how to tie those wires?" He points to the truck.

"Mmh... no, I don't," you confess.

"You just have to use the staple gun, literally." He puts his hand in his pocket, rummaging for something, then holds it out. "Here, this is the plan Lavon wants. It's a float with our flag."

You look delicately at the float, nodding softly. "Alright, it'll be a piece of cake. Don't worry." And suddenly you make a military gesture, dramatically. "I'll do everything within my power!"

He gives you a couple of pats on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you. See you later." He says, then leaves.

You were left alone in the barn, with the plan in one hand and the staple gun in the other. You unfolded the plan on the worktable. Wade's design was... surprisingly good. Clean lines, correct proportions, notes in the margins in messy but legible handwriting.

You got to work. The wires were very stubborn, impossible to glue since they bent easily; stapling them was necessary to make the base. The staple gun jammed every three attempts, and the heat was sticky. But as you progressed, the skeleton of the float began to take shape under your fingers. You weren't even paying attention to how much time had passed.

Next, you grabbed a couple of wooden boards, plus nails and a hammer, and started pounding hard to make the floor. So much so that on several occasions you accidentally hit your hand —what pain!

You put a bandage on your hand and kept working, painting the base white, getting your clothes a bit dirty. At a certain point in the afternoon, someone called your name, making you turn around.

It was Zoe, looking more gangster-like, it seemed. And she wasn't alone; there was a younger girl beside her. "Hi!"

You greeted them with a smile, looking at them from above. "Meet Rose."

"Hi, nice to meet you!" she said. And you responded charmingly. "Likewise."

"Have you been doing all this alone?" Zoe asks, bewildered as she walked around.

"Oh, well, yes. Wade was going to help me, but he said he had a shift. But no worries! If he had work to do, I'm glad. He seems responsible at his job," you said, while painting.

"But I saw him in his cabin, playing the guitar," Rose responds.

"Oh," you add, stopping suddenly.

"Yeah, oh," Zoe crosses her arms. "You know what? I'm going to find him. I'll bring him here. I'm not going to let him get out of work. Besides, you've already done enough," she says firmly, turning around and heading in the direction of the meadow.

You get down from the float, trying not to lean any part of your body on the fresh paint until your feet touch the ground. And you look at Rose. Slowly, you hold out a paintbrush. "Want to paint?"

"I'd love to." She gently grabs the brush.

The two of you mutually began to paint the whole carriage, and later, you started carefully attaching various ribbons that represented the flag.

It wasn't long before you heard footsteps at the barn entrance. This time there were two pairs. Looking up, you saw Zoe, with her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, and behind her, Wade, with an expression of discomfort.

"Wow," he said, crossing his arms. "You really have worked."

You hummed at his response as you continued painting and stapling various parts of the float.

Wade instead nodded, and then, to your surprise, came over to you, snatching the staple gun. "Come on, leave that. I'll take over."

"Why?" you ask, frowning.

"You're terrible at stapling these things, and besides, you're exhausted. So let me do it," he insists, without looking at you as he settles in to start.

You stay silent for a few seconds, then shrug, accepting his sudden change of heart to help. You went over to the straw in front of you, lying down while gazing at the orange sky above.

You hadn't realized that in the end, you fell asleep on the straw.

The next morning, the sun hits you right in the face, literally, the only head poking out of the pile of straw.

It turns out you'd fallen asleep, and no one had told you. You opened your eyes slowly, turning your head side to side, until you saw that the float was ready, decorated and everything! Only the final details were missing.

You started half-listening to a conversation between Rose and Wade —well, Rose mainly, because Wade was getting tired of listening to her.

"His name is Frederick Dean. He has two first names, something about that is so classic and cool. And my God... I saw he was reading Chew the other day, which is my favorite comic! But I didn't know how to tell him."

Wade interrupts, glancing at her sideways.

"Look, girl, do I look like iCarly to you? If I hear the name Frederick Dean one more time, I'm gonna glue your lips shut with hot glue."

Rose narrows her eyes. "Where is your sense of romance?"

Zoe comes in with several things in her hands, but she was coming for you, asking, "Where is she?" with a frown.

Wade jerked his thumb backward without looking up from what he was doing. "In the straw."

Your hand emerged from it, lifting as if to indicate where you were. "I can't feel my body..." you said, with a hoarse voice.

Zoe blinked. Then she looked at Wade with narrowed eyes. "She fell asleep here?"

"She dropped like a stone," Wade said, shrugging. "And before you say anything, you were the one who told me not to wake her up."

"Because she was exhausted! She did almost all the work herself," Zoe responds.

"Yeah, yeah." Wade raised his hands in peace. "It's fine by me. She's still there, breathing, alive and everything."

"It's not the first time someone's slept like that," Rose adds, taking a photo. "For my blog," she murmurs.

Zoe slowly approaches you, extending a hand and pulling you out of the pile of straw. Wade suppresses a laugh and looks forward, trying not to look at the absurd state you were in, but it was impossible.

"You look a mess," Wade said, now looking at you.

"It's my new look, it's called straw-chic." You do a twirl, theatrically showing yourself off ridiculously. You had straw everywhere, even in your messy hair.

"It suits you, in the bad way," he replied, while Zoe laughed along with Rose.

"Aww, thanks..." you say, looking at him.

"That wasn't a compliment." He smiles, shaking his head.

You laugh softly, looking at the float, and are surprised. "Oh, wow... It looks..."

"Amazing!" Lavon responds, arriving on the scene. "Better than I ever imagined. Wade, my friend, I knew I could count on you..." He chuckles. "And Rose Hattenbarger, well, since you're joining us, would you do me the honor of wearing the Alabama costume?"

"I'd love to, sir!" she responds, enthusiastically.

Lavon nods, until he looks at you. His face changes expression. "Ugh, heavens... But what happened to you?"

You wave your hand vaguely. "I fell asleep, it's nothing."

"What do you mean it's nothing?" Lavon looked you up and down with a mix of horror and amusement. "It looks like a scarecrow exploded on your head."

"It's her new look!" Wade intervened, not looking up from a wire. "It's called straw-chic. Isn't she modern?"

"It's... something," Lavon conceded, clearly not understanding the concept. "Well, go to your cabin, shower and fix yourself up. The parade starts in a couple of hours and I want my artist in the front row. And presentable, please."

"Yes, sir," you said, smiling at him. "I'll take a shower. See you all later." You wave briefly at everyone, heading off.

The parade was about to begin!

The mid-morning sun beat down on the main street of Bluebell, but no one seemed to mind. Blue and red bunting fluttered among the trees, children's laughter fluttered like birds, and the smell of sweet corn and cotton candy floated in the air. The Founder's Day parade was in full swing.

You had placed yourself in a discreet background, leaning against a lamppost. You'd showered, put on a light flowered dress, and gathered your hair in a low ponytail, leaving behind the straw-chic look to Lavon's relief.

The float was moving slowly down the street, pulled by a tractor driven by Wade himself. It was beautiful. The flags fluttered, the rugby ball gleamed in the sun, and Rose, perched on the back in the Alabama costume (which was, in fact, a bird), waved at the crowd as if she were the queen of the carnival.

"Look!" a child shouted next to you.

Rose spotted you in the crowd and gave you an enthusiastic two-handed wave. You waved back, laughing.

You felt happy in that moment, seeing so many people together and with such enthusiasm; it felt good. Better than California, truth be told.

On the back, behind Rose, were Zoe and Lavon waving at everyone. As soon as they saw you, they waved too, and you returned the greeting affectionately.

And behind them, in a brief silence, appeared the Hell's Belles float, led by Lemon Belle. Truthfully, her float seemed beautiful to you; it had floral details everywhere, and on top of that, a live dance! It was charming, like those classic period films. You applauded, more for the work they'd done, not knowing that that woman was the devil incarnate.

More floats came after, one with greenish and bluish tones, another representing a country... The whole event was beautiful.

However, at one point, something happened up ahead.

You couldn't tell exactly what, but Zoe suddenly said something to Lavon, going directly to Wade's tractor, and suddenly... were they struggling? You didn't know what was happening, but it seemed she wanted him to stop the tractor. And yet, Wade refused.

That's when things got out of control.

While struggling the whole time, the tractor veered off course, crashing into various festival items: tables, a bench... even a fire hydrant, which caused water to spray everywhere. The carriage moved across the grass, slowly getting damaged, until finally, the tractor stopped.

Since the float ahead stopped, the one behind (the Belles') crashed into yours, causing a domino effect with the following floats, sending several decorations tumbling down.

It was horrible.

You quickly approached your float. And God, it was in bad shape.

"Well... at least the rugby goal hasn't fallen," you murmured.

Suddenly, that goal wobbled, until it fell to the ground and broke, scaring several people.

Damn.

You slowly walked toward the street, observing the disaster more clearly.

"What the hell was that?!" Lavon was saying, looking down at Zoe.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I promise I'll explain, but please, just try to cover for me!" Zoe said, nervous and ashamed.

Lavon gets off the float, heading straight to his post, microphone in hand, and starts talking.

"Well, welcome to another year in the parade of..."

As you listened to him, your gaze went to Rose, who was wobbling on the float. You headed toward her, raising your hands. "Get down, Rose, I'll catch you!"

Rose crouches down trembling; you couldn't see her expression because of the bird mask, but you guessed she was a bit scared by the whole sudden situation. She grabs your hands and you help her down carefully. "Are you okay?" you ask.

"Yes, yes, I'm okay..." she says, voice muffled.

"How about we go with the others, yeah?" You try to calm her down, and she nods, guiding her toward the crowd.

Everything was chaos. People moved from one place to another, upset by the situation; some trying to help people from other floats, in case another accident happened.

A while later, when things had calmed down, the remaining people started cleaning the streets. The event itself had been ruined and "canceled," so to speak. Lavon's speech was excellent, of course, but the parade was not.

You found yourself sweeping up the mess, alongside Rose and Wade, who was looking over the tractor. And at an unexpected moment, Frederick Dean appeared for Rose.

"Hey, Rose... I saw the accident, are you okay?" he asks, looking at her.

"Yes, I am," she replies firmly. "Shouldn't you be with the little princess of Magnolia?" she adds abruptly, catching you off guard as you swept.

"Oh... okay," he said, confused, about to leave.

"Hey, Rose," Wade calls, looking at her. "Do you... have the latest issue of Chew? I'd like you to lend it to me."

Frederick turns around, watching her. "You read Chew?"

"Yeah, man, she reads it... She's practically the president of the fan club," Wade adds.

Rose smiles, "Except I think releasing issue twenty-seven out of order was really weird."

"Me too! I don't understand why you'd do that, especially when the USDA's suicide mission was so great in the eighteenth century," Frederick adds, starting a conversation with her.

That gesture makes you smile, because of Wade's intentions, and so you kept sweeping, processing everything that had happened.

"I'll ask you for it later," Wade says, stepping away from the tractor to leave them alone. And he headed toward you.

"Hey," he adds.

You look up, watching him before continuing. "Hey."

"Need help?" he asks, nodding toward the broom.

You shake your head. "Oh, no, no. I'm almost done."

"Good." He leaned against the lamppost, arms crossed. "Because I wasn't actually going to help you. I was just trying to be polite."

You let out a low laugh, shaking your head. There was a silent pause; there wasn't much cheer after the accident.

"What a mess, huh?" he says, breaking the ice, trying to get a laugh or something. But you didn't respond; you were focused on sweeping up the remains.

"I'm sorry about the float," he adds, watching you as you swept. "I mean, well, that you'd worked so much only for it to get destroyed... must be tough."

"Yeah... it's a shame. But oh well..." You shrugged, without stopping sweeping. "We saw it finished. It was beautiful. And during the little bit of parade that lasted, people applauded. That's already more than I expected when I got here." You smile a little.

Although you couldn't see his face, he smiled a little, watching you.

"You know what? Leave the broom," he says, coming closer.

"What?"

Wade gently takes the broom from you, starting to sweep himself. He didn't say anything about it, and you just stood there watching him as he swept up the remains.

"Thank you..." you add, smiling at him warmly. And slowly, you started walking toward your house.

Night had fallen over Bluebell quickly. The heat finally relented, and the song of crickets filled the silence over the fields. You were in your cabin, wrapped in a light blanket on the sofa, with your bare feet on the cushions you'd put out the first day. Tea steamed between your hands, and a box of saltine crackers sat half-finished on the coffee table. You weren't really hungry; you just needed something to do with your hands.

There was a knock at the door. Two soft, almost timid knocks.

When you opened it, you found Zoe on the porch. She was wearing the same dress from the parade, but her updo had come undone and her makeup was a little smudged.

"Hi..." she said, with a smaller voice than usual. "Can I come in? I brought tea. Well, you already have tea. But I brought..." She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a crumpled bag. "Supermarket cookies. They're terrible. I'm sorry..."

"Come in," you said, stepping aside. "I was just about to pour more tea."

Zoe came in and sank onto the sofa with the weight of someone who'd carried a whole day on her shoulders. For a while, neither of you said anything. You poured her a cup, and she took it with both hands, staring into the dark liquid as if looking for answers.

"I'm an idiot..." she finally said, breaking the silence. "I'm an idiot, I ruined the parade. And the town hates me..." she takes a sip. "I'm so sorry about the float, really. I can explain."

You look at her, taking a sip.

"See... there was this patient, from the Belles. It turns out she has an illness, and I flat-out refused to let her join the parade. It was dangerous, but she didn't want to hear it. So... I prescribed her some pills; obviously I told her to take just one, because they're really strong. And... it turns out she took more than she should have, which caused an overdose in the middle of the parade. When I saw her before she passed out, I tried to stop everything before it got that far. But... I just caused more problems."

There was a brief pause, and you hummed in response. "That makes sense... no wonder you were struggling with Wade."

She nods, staring into space.

"Listen... it's not your fault, really. And if you're wondering, I'm not mad or anything."

"But... you did the whole float for the parade..."

"I know, but that's not right, because we all did it, not just me. But the thing is, it's not your fault. You know what would have happened if you hadn't intervened? Imagine the poor girl fainting and falling to the ground. She could have had a concussion," you say, watching her. "You did what you could, really. And I'm grateful you helped her..."

"I wish people saw it that way..." she sighs.

"They will, just wait," you reply, smiling at her.

She laughs, her back falling against the sofa. "You know what I miss about New York?" She closes her eyes.

"Mmm?"

"Watching series or TV shows... especially sitcoms, I love them."

Your gaze slides toward the television, then back to her. "Well... there's a TV. Do you feel like watching some series... with me?" you ask, making Zoe open her eyes and look at you softly.

"I'd love to," she replies, with a slight, charming pout.

You hand her the remote, letting her be the one to choose. Meanwhile, you adjust the blanket, covering her completely.

Zoe turned on the TV and started zapping. She passed a news channel, a rerun of a cooking reality show, an American football game Lavon was probably watching at his mansion. Until she stopped on a channel airing reruns of Friends.

"This one okay?" she asked, twirling the remote between her fingers.

"It's perfect." You sank a little deeper into the sofa. "But I warn you, I know all the dialogue."

Zoe let out a soft laugh and set the remote aside. On screen, Monica, Rachel, Chandler, Joey, Phoebe, and Ross appeared at the fountain in the opening credits, and you hummed along softly, just to annoy her. Zoe rolled her eyes, but said nothing. And when you turned to grab another saltine cracker, you saw her smiling.

"Thank you..." she said, without looking at you, her eyes fixed on the TV.

"Nothing to thank." You shrugged. "That's what friends are for," you add warmly.

You couldn't see Zoe's reaction because you were focused on the show, but her eyes sparkled a little, as if having you confirm you were already friends had lifted her spirits.

"I'm glad you're my neighbor," she says, glancing at you sideways.

"Me too." You look at her, smiling.

Just then, Chandler's first joke filled the room. The two of you laughed quietly as the night wore on and the show played on.

The first light of dawn slipped through the window, thin and amber, around seven in the morning. Dex blinked, disoriented. The ceiling was not his. The pillow did not smell of him. And the warmth pressed against his back, the gentle weight of two arms draped over his waist, jolted him back to reality in an instant.

He lay perfectly still, holding his breath. It had been years since he had slept so deeply, and now, upon waking, the only thing he felt was panic. Panic at having allowed himself to be so vulnerable. At having asked for an embrace in the darkness like a frightened child. What the hell had he been thinking? He did not do things like that.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Wake you? Wait for you to open your eyes? Say something? What? Good morning? Was that alright? Thank you for not running away?

Slowly, he turned his head, watching you out of the corner of his eye. You were sleeping with your lips slightly parted, your hair a mess against the pillow. He shifted carefully, careful not to touch your hands, and the movement made your arms slip gently from his waist. And he stayed there, watching you; he did not know for how long. He was not looking at you with the cold, calculating intensity he reserved for targets or subjects. This was something softer, clumsier.

His first instinct was to leave without a sound. It was what he always did. But as he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes swept over the apartment and landed on last night's cups still on the table, the blanket on the sofa crumpled into a ball, a couple of cushions out of place. He frowned. This was disorder. And disorder unsettled him, badly.

So he rose, dressed in the same clothes he had worn the night before—he was irritated to find his shirt hopelessly wrinkled—and began to move through the apartment in complete silence. He gathered the cups, washed them, placed them upside down on the drying rack with an almost pathological symmetry. He straightened the sofa cushions, folding the blanket with military precision over the armrest. He wiped down the countertop. Each gesture was a way to soothe himself, to regain control. To prove to himself that he was still functional, useful, still capable of maintaining order even when his head was chaos.

Once the apartment was spotless, he found a pen in one of the drawers and tore a sheet from the notepad beside the phone. He wrote four lines. He left the note propped against the coffeemaker and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him with a click so soft it was barely there.

Out in the hallway, he stood frozen for a moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. He did not want to leave. That was the worst of it. This time, he wanted to stay. And that was so new, so strange, that it terrified him far more than any ambush.

So he did what he always did when something terrified him: he fled. He took the stairs two at a time, burst out onto the street, and breathed in the cold morning air as though he had just escaped something. He had no idea what to do. His mind was blank, unable to decide what to think. Had it been right to leave? Should he have stayed? What if you were angry about it?

He had not even eaten breakfast; the thought had not crossed his mind. He needed time. But as always, he had to stick to the routine, and that meant going back to his own apartment. So he walked, heedless of the weather or the hour. Everything had to follow its own order. His order.

He reached his building, but he did not go to the kitchen. No. If he was going to restart the routine, he had to begin at the very beginning.

With his bed.

He went into the bedroom, undressed, folded his clothes with care, placed them on his desk, and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up.

He did not sleep. He simply stared at the ceiling in a heavy, uncomfortable silence.

The whole time.

The alarm went off at eight o'clock sharp. A shrill, metallic beep that shattered the silence of the apartment. Dex silenced it with a slap, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. He stayed still a moment longer, savouring the emptiness. Then, with the precision of a machine clicking into gear, he rose from the bed and began the usual choreography. First, he went to the bathroom, stripping off the last of his clothes and turning on the tap.

The water streamed down his powerful, muscular back, all the way to his feet. He braced his hands against the tiles and let the water pound the nape of his neck. He ran a hand over his abdomen, as though he could feel something inside—a dull ache, a deep unease. It was as if his stomach were throbbing over and over. Perhaps he was nervous. He had not taken his pills yet.

He shut off the tap with a sharp twist and stood still for a moment, water dripping from the ends of his hair. Then he dried himself with a towel and planted himself in front of the fogged mirror.

The steam slowly cleared, and his reflection surfaced from the mist like a ghost—just a faceless silhouette at first. With the same towel, he began wiping the glass, from top to bottom.

And then, in an instant, between one pass of the towel and the next, your reflection appeared before him.

He startled violently. He blinked and stumbled backward without meaning to, slamming into the rack that held a spare towel and sending it clattering to the floor. His gaze shot to the mess, then back to the mirror.

The glass was completely clear now. And there was nothing there but his own face.

Dex blinked, terrified.

His hand gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to three, and opened them again.

Nothing had changed. His own face still stared back. But he could have sworn he had seen your face there for a couple of seconds.

It was not real. He knew that. It was his head, his goddamn head, playing tricks on him again. Like the buzzing of flies that sometimes filled his ears. Like the voice of his dead therapist, the one he still heard in moments of crisis.

He turned away from the mirror with a sharp movement and finished dressing without looking back. A spotless white shirt, buttoned from the bottom up. A dark suit, left open, and shoes that reflected the lamplight like a mirror. Once dressed, his eyes drifted for a moment to the bottle of pills.

Normally, he took one with breakfast, lunch, or dinner to stabilise himself better in his daily life. So he grabbed a pill, popped it into his mouth without water, and swallowed it dry. He stood still, hands resting on the countertop, waiting for the churning in his stomach to subside. It did not. He simply stopped paying attention to it.

Then he went to the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker, and waited on his feet, arms crossed, watching the dark liquid begin to drip. Decaf. Always decaf. Caffeine made him jittery, and he was already jittery enough without chemical help.

He slid his hand toward a newspaper lying on the counter and brought it over to the table. He had exactly fifteen minutes to read it while he drank his coffee. He sat down, back ramrod straight, and opened the paper with careful hands.

It was nothing more than another story about Fisk's transfer. As before, the press had wasted no time criticising and dissecting the decision. The paper tore into the FBI officers, mocking their lack of judgement and competence.

What most people did not know was that the bulk of the FBI was being manipulated, both by Fisk and by Hattley.

Dex was on that same path, still in the process of being drawn in. He knew, absolutely, that he should not trust Fisk. Of course not. Who would? The man was dangerous, playing his part as the helpless prisoner to perfection. And yet, despite everything, a few of his words had lodged themselves firmly in Dex's mind. Especially the moment Fisk had told him he valued his work, that he had been extraordinarily brave during the assault on the convoy.

The article also mentioned the hotel—the staggering sum it cost to keep Fisk in a luxury penthouse—and the outrage of ordinary citizens who watched a criminal receive five-star treatment while the agents who had died in the convoy attack barely earned a single line of tribute buried on page twelve.

Dex simply tightened his jaw. He might not feel that strange thing called empathy for them, but he knew it was wrong to give a man like him more weight in the story than the colleagues who had fallen.

He drank his coffee, his eyes fixed on the words of the newspaper, until a glance at his watch told him time had run out. He returned to the kitchen, washed the cup, and set it upside down in the exact same position as the other one. He pulled on his jacket, and was almost out the door when a photograph caught his eye.

It was from his time at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.

After his therapist's death, Dex had been left without any figure of attachment. Mercer had taught him to build a life on what she called "the pillars of order": a clean physical space, a disciplined vocation, and a rigid structure to keep him stable. Thanks to the cassette tapes she had left him, he could still summon her voice. It helped him, truly, whenever he was overwhelmed or on the verge of breaking.

He had followed her advice: enlisted in the army, sharpened his aim and his affinity for weapons. Later, he had found work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center.

His gaze drifted to one corner of the photograph. There she was. Julie. His "Northern Star." His "North Star." The one he had always stalked. The one you knew about.

Julie had been his coworker, and she was everything he was not: warm, sweet, genuinely interested in helping others. Dex had fallen for her almost immediately—or at least developed a fixation, an obsession, that he had always mistaken for love.

In front of Julie, Dex pretended to be an exemplary colleague. He showed interest in the cases, listened attentively, acted like someone who genuinely wanted to help. But when Julie wasn't around, his true nature came to light. Once, a young man called the helpline explaining that his abusive stepfather was making his life impossible and that he was considering ending his own life. Dex's advice wasn't to seek help or to report his abuser; it was direct and brutal:

"You have a weapon. Fine, use it. But why turn it on yourself? It's not worth it. If the bastard stepfather is making your life hell, why not use it on him?" He even gave advice on whatever weapon the kid had, offering his own critique. "A Glock 17? That's a good pistol. Reliable, accurate... seventeen rounds in the magazine. Lightweight, the frame is polymer, not metal. Your hand won't get tired. Plus, the Safe Action system makes it very safe: three internal automatic safeties. It won't go off on its own. And the recoil is low. If you squeeze the trigger right... it won't miss." He very nearly convinced the young man to murder his own stepfather. If Julie hadn't intervened, the kid probably would have ended his stepfather's life, feeding Dex's coldness in the process.

He didn't see any contradiction in his own behaviour. To him, that advice was perfectly reasonable: eliminate the threat rather than surrender to it. It was the same logic he applied to his own life. He didn't understand why it was wrong, and he only held himself back when Julie was around, because he knew she wouldn't approve.

Julie never got to know this side of Dex. To her, he was a kind coworker, maybe a little strange, but harmless. Dex, for his part, began to follow her, to memorise her routines, to watch her without being seen. The suicide prevention centre thus became the stage for his first major stalking. It was there that he learned to feign normalcy while hiding his darkness—a skill he would later perfect at the FBI, passing unnoticed (though everyone there still saw him as a weirdo).

He smiled at the photograph, just a little, staring at Julie's silhouette for a moment before opening the door and stepping out of his apartment.

The light from your bedroom window flooded the room, the morning sun blinding you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you buried your face into the pillow, groaning in protest. Slowly, your hand reached out, searching for the warm body beside you, but there was nothing there.

You turned your head, opening your eyes and confirming that, indeed, no one was beside you.

You sat up, the blanket sliding over your t-shirt, your face still drowsy. What time was it?

You looked at the clock: ten in the morning.

Your gaze swept the room. Dex's clothes were gone, and there was no sign that he was still somewhere in your apartment. You slid out of bed, your feet shuffling across the floor as you rubbed your face.

When you reached the living room, you frowned.

The room had changed—well, not that much. But everything was noticeably tidier. The blanket, for instance, was folded and neatly arranged among the cushions. The cups the two of you had drunk from had been washed and left upside down in the same position on the drying rack. Dex had definitely done all this.

You walked over to the counter, spotting the folded note, and carefully opened it.

"I tidied up a bit. Hope you don't mind. Thanks for letting me stay. —D."

Your heart gave a little flutter, and you smiled. Even though he had gotten up without you, without saying goodbye, he had at least left you that note. Plus, he had left the apartment tidier (though in your opinion, it hadn't been necessary) and the coffeemaker ready.

You grabbed the same cup from yesterday, this time filling it with coffee, and drank it in a profoundly awkward silence that filled the entire room. Truth be told, since you weren't working, you could go out for a while, right? You could at least keep yourself busy with practical things.

So, by mid-morning, you left your apartment. The wind outside slapped your face.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen carried on as usual—cars passing by, the smell of a nearby bakery... You walked at your own pace, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket, in the full grip of autumn.

As you turned a corner, the sound of sirens caught your attention. An FBI car was parked next to an apartment building. It wasn't all that strange—in fact, it was fairly normal for these streets—but the tense posture of the agents caught your eye. They moved with their hands resting on their weapons, as if something deeply dangerous lurked inside that building.

Right next to you, in the alleyway, you began to hear footsteps on the fire escape—the metallic clang gave it away. You looked over and noticed a man climbing down with difficulty, limping, as if he were badly hurt.

The poor guy was so exhausted that when he finally jumped to the ground, he had to brace himself against the wall just to keep from collapsing.

He propped himself against a dumpster, sliding down until he reached the ground, one hand pressed to his side, hissing and breathing with obvious difficulty.

You looked around twice. Should you... help him? you wondered. I mean, you were literally right next to him, but was it the right thing to do? What if he rejected you with disdain? Maybe you shouldn't get involved—who knew what kind of trouble you'd be walking into.

Nonsense! You were far too bored doing nothing; you needed action, to be useful. And this man was the salvation of your aimlessness.

You began to approach cautiously, just close enough for him to see you.

"Hey, are you okay?" you asked. The man looked up, and you realized that, no, he was definitely not okay. His face was covered in wounds.

God! What kind of question was that? Of course he's not okay! He's bleeding out like a ketchup bottle.

Great start.

"Okay, my bad... Sorry," you said, laughing a little nervously, eyeing his hand. "You don't look good, honestly."

You squinted as you studied him. His face was... familiar, somehow. You felt like you'd seen him somewhere before, but you couldn't place him—at least not yet.

He, on the other hand, seemed to have recognised you. He just wasn't speaking, hesitating instead. What could he even say to you right now?

Slowly, you knelt down, looking at him. "Listen... maybe you don't want help, and I completely understand that, really. But if you stay here, that wound's probably going to get infected and cause you a world of pain, which I'm sure you don't want. So... how about I take you back to my place? And I won't ask any questions, I promise, if that's what you want." You raised your hands in surrender.

He let out a soft sigh. "Is your apartment far...?" he managed to ask.

You nodded. "A few minutes from here." Your hand brushed his greenish jacket. "May I?"

"No, no, wait. Better not," he said, getting to his feet on his own, hissing in pain. "It's better if we act normal..."

"You're literally dripping blood," you replied.

"People have seen worse things. I doubt anyone's going to stop and ask," he answered with a touch of humour, laughing despite the pain.

You stared at him for a few seconds, brow furrowed, until finally, you shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way. Let's go." You gestured with your head.

You walked in silence through the streets of Hell's Kitchen, passing coffee shops and fruit stands with the same naturalness as two strangers sharing a pavement. Except one of you was utterly wrecked.

He walked beside you, jaw clenched, breathing controlled. He didn't complain, but every few steps his hand drifted back to his side, pressing the wound as if sheer willpower could contain the pain. It was admirable. And completely stupid.

"Did you get in a fight with a shredder or something?" you asked, without looking away from the path ahead, your tone light and not really expecting an answer.

"Something like that." His voice was hoarse, but not hostile. He even managed something close to a smile. "It was a very big shredder..."

You snorted. At least he had a sense of humour.

When you reached your building, you moved ahead to open the door for him. He hesitated a moment, as if stepping into unknown territory, then followed you up the stairs. He climbed the steps one by one, without complaint, though his breathing grew more ragged with each flight.

When the two of you finally entered your apartment, you shut the door gently and guided him to the sofa.

"Sit down," you said, in a softer tone than you'd intended. "I'm not going to ask you anything, but I am going to patch you up. And I won't take no for an answer..."

He gave a tired smile.

"You're very persuasive."

"Well, I'm a forensic scientist," you admitted. "I'm used to dealing with shattered bodies that can't complain. So..." You moved closer to him, setting the first-aid kit on the table, and knelt in front of him.

"Take off your jacket," you added.

"Shouldn't we have dinner first?" he murmured, his voice a thread of pain.

"Very funny... but take it off, seriously. Or I'll do it for you."

He obeyed, with slow, pained movements. When the jacket fell to the floor, you saw what it had been hiding. The black t-shirt underneath was soaked in blood, and a deep gash ran across his ribs. It wasn't fatal, but it was bad enough to need stitches.

Stitches you couldn't give him.

"Okay... uh... when I offered to help, I didn't exactly mean stitching you up, honestly," you pressed your lips together, looking up at him. You could see his face up close, the bruise on his cheek. "I'm going to disinfect the wound, so fair warning... it's going to hurt."

You sighed and soaked a piece of gauze in hydrogen peroxide. When the liquid touched the wound, he hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. His hands gripped the edge of the sofa so tightly his knuckles went white, and he tried to stifle a groan. It didn't work.

"Sorry, sorry..." you whispered, moving the cotton around his abdomen. "Do you think if I bandage the wound... it'll hold until you get wherever you're trying to go?"

He shook his head. "You have to stitch it," he insisted.

You sighed again, and finally, you had to nod. You went to your bedroom for a few seconds to get a needle and thread, and returned to him.

You looked at him for a moment, the needle between your fingers. "Are you sure?" you asked.

And he nodded without hesitation, eyes closed.

You stayed quiet for a while, and with care, you drove the needle into his skin, threading it through. You heard a soft groan from him at the sharpness of it.

As you repeated the motion, you wanted to ask him something—though, as you'd said earlier, you'd promised not to ask any questions.

"Hey..." you began.

He hummed in response, looking down at you.

"I know I said I wouldn't ask questions, but I have to say I'm curious... have we seen each other before?" you asked, pausing to look up, studying him.

There was a brief silence between you, and you began to frown, slowly.

"Maybe," he replied, his gaze unfocused.

You hummed in response. "That's not an answer. So... I'll take it as a yes."

"We met at the Fisk protest, at the hotel..." he finally said, and you kept stitching the wound. "You helped me with the elevator. Remember?"

You bit your lip, trying to recall, until your mouth fell open. "...Oh! So it was you. What a joy to see you again, then," you said, with a hint of irony.

"Yeah, well." He slid his gaze to another part of the room, frowning now and then, as if he were concentrating on something else.

"So, another accident on the stairs?" you asked, with a touch of sarcasm. This man definitely hadn't just fallen down some steps; he looked like he'd climbed into a cage with jaguars.

He snorted a little, but looked exhausted, almost sorry for what had happened. "Something like that," he said, staring at your distant window.

You finished stitching the wound and applied more gauze around it, trying to clean up the fresh blood. Then you pressed a white patch over it, just to be safe.

He pulled his t-shirt down slowly, in silence. He stayed there a few seconds, his gaze lost on the window, as if mentally calculating how much time he could allow himself to rest before leaving. Then, he pushed himself up from the sofa with a stifled groan, one hand going to his freshly bandaged side. He stayed like that for several minutes.

"You should rest," you advised.

He shook his head gently, rising from there and starting to walk, wobbling a little.

You frowned. "Where do you think you're going?" you asked.

"I have to go... I can't stay here long," he said, without looking at you. "Really, I value your... empathy." He let the word slip as if it cost him to admit he hadn't seen that in you. "But I can't stay. Besides, if I stayed here, I'd bring you trouble."

You rose to your feet, watching him. He was pulling on his oversized greenish jacket, covering his t-shirt and, above all, his wounds.

"Thank you, for everything. I owe you quite a lot... I promise I'll repay you in the future."

"It's nothing," you waved a hand, vaguely. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

He shook his head again. "I have to see someone," he said, naming no one.

He headed toward the door, before looking back at you. "If... anyone asks, you haven't seen me. You don't know me, you don't know who I am or what I was doing in that alley. The people looking for me aren't very kind to those who help me..."

You blinked a couple of times, then nodded. "Alright... I won't say a word to anyone."

He gave you a brief smile, and stepped out of your apartment, disappearing from sight.

You were curious to know who he really was; however, you were certain that if you asked for his name, he'd dodge the question—that's exactly why you didn't ask. But the curiosity burned... You wouldn't tell anyone (at least for now), because if you did, it would backfire on you. You'd be implicating yourself as an accomplice, and besides, being suspended, it wouldn't be seen as a heroic act—quite the opposite. It would be a disgrace to the FBI and you'd probably be fired.

So, just as that man had said, you wouldn't tell a soul.

You stayed in your apartment for several more minutes, alone with the hum of the refrigerator accompanying you in that deep silence. With nothing to do, you felt that familiar itch. That need.

That need to see Dex again.

It had only been a few hours, but you wanted to see him, again. It wasn't rational. It was something more primitive—a compass that always pointed toward him. You knew that at this hour, if he was following his routine, he'd be running the streets near the hotel, perhaps following Julie, perhaps just clearing his head. You hadn't dressed for spying, but that had never stopped you before. A light jacket, the hood over your hair, and you stepped out onto the street.

The fresh air slapped your cheeks again. You walked unhurriedly, hands in your pockets, until you reached the route Dex usually took. You'd memorised it long ago, just as you'd memorised everything else.

And there he was.

In the distance, his unmistakable silhouette. The straight back, the steady stride, the measured breathing. He wore a dark sweatshirt and track pants, jogging a few metres ahead of you, focused.

You smiled to yourself and began to follow him, at his back.

It wasn't hard. Dex was focused on something—or rather, on someone—else. Julie was jogging a few metres ahead of him, oblivious to it all, and he followed her with the same devotion with which you followed him. A chain of watchers. Three links. You, Dex, and Julie. Like that pizza night, but in broad daylight.

You'd been following him for several minutes now, keeping your distance, concealing yourself with the same skill you'd perfected over the years. But something had changed. You were no longer invisible to him.

Not anymore.

Dex stopped.

He didn't slow down. He stopped dead, his feet planted on the asphalt, his back still turned to you. Julie kept running, just now pausing under a bridge where a homeless man sat. She seemed to be giving him some money, or maybe food, but Dex didn't move. His head turned slightly—just enough for you to see his profile.

"Can you stop following me?"

Dex turned around fully. His eyes found you instantly, with that inhuman precision that defined him. He seemed... resigned, as if he'd been waiting a while for you to show your face.

You froze. Your first impulse was to deny it, to make an excuse, to pretend you were there by chance. But Dex's expression told you it wouldn't do any good. He knew.

"I wasn't following you... I don't know what you're talking about," you looked around, lying anyway.

He raised an eyebrow, slightly. "Yeah, sure. And I'm the President of the United States..."

"You could be... or at least one of those presidential bodyguards," you wiggled your fingers toward him, dramatically. "You've got good aim."

His face was a mask of discomfort, and he shook his head. "That's not funny..." he ran his hands over his face, then turned away for a few seconds, not wanting to lose sight of Julie.

"I just wanted to see you," you shrugged, as if it were the most natural phrase in the world.

"You saw me last night..." His voice came out rougher than he probably intended. "And this morning... well, no. Not this morning. I left before you..." He cut himself off, as if he'd just realised he was about to admit something. He lowered his gaze. "Did you read the note?"

You nodded.

"Did it bother you?" he asked again.

And you shook your head.

He nodded to himself. His hands slowly drifted toward his own pockets, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"Why do you follow me? I mean... you already know everything. You've seen me... and you've been with me. Why do you need to...?"

"Because I like it," you interrupted, with the same naturalness you'd use to say you liked the colour of the morning sky. "I like everything... about you," you added, with something that might have been interpreted as... shyness? As if in front of him, it cost you to say it.

Dex looked at you, in silence, and then let out a short sigh, relaxing his shoulders.

He took a brief step toward you. "No... you don't have to follow me. You can walk beside me. If you want."

You stood there a few seconds, looking at him. "Oh, really?"

And he nodded, determined. You fell in beside him, at his side, without quite touching him. Dex looked forward again, watching Julie for a few seconds; she was still with that homeless man.

"Are we going to follow her?" you asked.

He stayed quiet for several seconds, until he managed to answer. "No." You turned your head toward him, and then he added, "I've had enough for today..." and shifted his gaze toward you.

You laced your own fingers together, swaying your hands alongside your arms as you looked at them.

"There's a coffee shop nearby... do you... want to go?" he asked, looking at you. You simply nodded, your lips curving downward into a smile.

He started walking at an unhurried pace, and you followed. He didn't speak to you, but he seemed to be enjoying the shared silence. You zipped up your black hoodie, pulling the hood off as you kept walking beside him.

Eventually, you reached the nearby coffee shop. It was a surprisingly warm place inside, considering it sat in the middle of a cold, grey street. Ceiling lamps decorated with plants illuminated everything, casting orange highlights on your faces. You followed in his footsteps, at his back, as he headed to the counter.

He tossed a bill onto the counter. "I'll have a decaf... and whatever she wants," he announced. You tilted your head toward the barista, giving him a little smile.

"I'll have a cappuccino, please."

The barista nodded at the order, turning his back to start preparing them. Dex turned around, too, looking at you, and opened his mouth, letting it out without any context whatsoever.

"I want you to know... I'm not interested in Julie. Not sexually," he blinked a few seconds, uncomfortable with the word. "At least, not in that way," he added. It seemed like he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings between you, though the funny thing was that you hadn't even asked.

You frowned, slightly bewildered by the sudden change of subject. "...Okaaay...?" you laughed a little at his words. "I appreciate your honesty, but... I didn't ask. Doesn't it feel weird to just blurt that out like that?" you asked, laughing sweetly.

He let out a shaky sigh, slightly embarrassed by his own words.

Shit.

"No, no, no..." Dex raised a hand, waving it slightly as if trying to erase his own words from the air. "I didn't say it right. Or I did say it right, but it wasn't the right moment. I mean... I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that. It's just that..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture you'd seen on him far too many times. "Last night we were talking about her, and you asked me if she was a great girl to me, and I said yes, and it's true, she is, but not in that sense. It's more in the sense that..." He paused, searching for the words. "I admire her. That's it. I admire her."

He fell silent for several seconds, watching you, trying to read your expression. "Sorry, I'm... getting nervous," he let out a short laugh.

You smiled at him. "Don't worry, it's actually kind of cute to see you like this, honestly..." you said, with charm.

He fell silent again, and swallowed, frozen. He could feel his cheeks heating up for a few seconds. Luckily for him, the barista arrived right then with your orders, giving him an excuse to turn away from your gaze and grab the two cups.

"You're not mad... right?" he asked, holding your cappuccino out to you.

"No, not at all. Why would I be?" you replied, wrapping both hands around your cappuccino, feeling the warmth of the cup between your fingers.

He didn't answer your question; instead, he started walking toward the most isolated table, as far away as possible so the two of you would have your own space. You sat facing each other, studying one another.

You sipped your cappuccino softly, watching him. He, on the other hand, only looked at you now and then, out of nerves.

"So..." you began, holding your cup. "Had you already been inside my apartment?" you asked directly, this time without any context whatsoever.

"W-what?" He looked at you.

"Last night, when you came to my apartment. I never mentioned it, as far as I remember..." you traced a finger along the table, playing with the wood grain. "That means you must have been inside before, when I wasn't there. Were you stalking me?" you added, with a smile. For you, being stalked by him didn't bother you in the slightest; on the contrary, you loved it, because it meant you'd caught his attention.

"No, no... I wasn't stalking you," he shook his head, drinking a little of his coffee. "Though... I know it might look that way, but no."

You hummed, not quite believing him.

"After the thing with the magazine... I didn't know if you were a threat... if you worked for someone or if you were trying to toy with me." He looked up, meeting your eyes directly, with an intensity that wasn't aggressive, but rather something vulnerable. "I had... I had to make sure. So yeah. I went into your apartment... I'm sorry."

You simply smiled, not averting your gaze. "You don't have to apologise. It's okay. No problem..."

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, brow furrowed, incredulous.

"No, not at all... It means you wanted to get to know me," you smiled, and then added, "Besides... I like that it's you watching me, for once."

Dex blinked, processing your words. Then, without warning, he let out a soft, shaky sigh.

"And what were you able to see in my apartment?" you placed both hands on the table, resting your cheeks on them, full of curiosity and attention on him.

"Are you interested?"

And you hummed in reply.

He swallowed, sliding his hand across the table in a nervous gesture.

"Well... uh... I took a look at your books," he fidgeted with his hand. "I didn't understand half of what was in them... but the pictures were very interesting. Most of them, I think, were kind of explicit."

"Like the lobotomy picture? You know, when they push the trephine through the patient's eye socket," you gestured with your hands, explaining it to him. He nodded, intrigued by your way of expressing yourself. You smiled for a few seconds and went on explaining. "Lobotomy was performed to try to 'cure' or control severe psychiatric disorders... like schizophrenia, deep depression, and extreme anxiety, back when there were very few effective pharmacological treatments. But... far from curing them, ablation of the frontal lobes usually caused irreversible brain damage. The patients who underwent it often suffered severe apathy, drastic personality changes, loss of decision-making capacity, and in many cases, ended up in a vegetative state or died..."

As you explained with interest and enthusiasm, Dex watched you this time with more enchantment, fascinated by the subjects you knew—he seemed to melt just listening to you talk about them.

"If I remember correctly, it stopped being performed on a widespread basis in the 1950s, because they started developing antipsychotic and antidepressant medications... Today it's considered one of the most brutal and raw practices in history. Did you know that?" you asked him. He shook his head definitively.

"You're... very intelligent. In those concepts, anyway. I... wouldn't know," he admitted, looking at you, still spellbound. "What other horrible medicines do you know about?" he asked, curiously.

You smiled again, delighted. "There were medicines with mercury, years ago... They used it to fight syphilis and other infections back then. But as you can imagine, mercury isn't exactly a friendly substance for the human body... So... it destroyed patients' nervous systems, they lost their teeth, got ulcers, dementia, organ failure, and sometimes even death, from poisoning."

He was smiling sideways, listening to you. "Have you always been interested in medicine?"

You fell silent for a few seconds, your hands still wrapped around the cappuccino. It was a simple question, but the answer wasn't—especially not the main reason behind it. Dex noticed immediately and squinted for a few seconds, a little regretful. "Sorry... did I overstep? I shouldn't have asked, it's—"

"No, no, it's fine," you tried to soothe him, with a slight smile, which relaxed him a little. "I've always liked understanding how things work... The human body is fragile. It breaks easily, psychologically as well as physically. It's truly fascinating... Every bone, every organ, every tissue in the body... it has a function. And when something fails, you can figure it out." You paused, fiddling with the rim of your cup. "As a child, I didn't have much control over my life, because of my parents. Like I told you last night, my father was a shitty abuser, and my mother was too deranged to understand that the pain he caused her was love."

You looked up for a few seconds, watching him, and then glanced around the coffee shop. There weren't many people in your area, but either way, with a slight smile, you lowered your voice, looking at him.

"Do you want to know something?" you asked. "Do you want to know the real reason I became interested in this?" You pointed a finger, swirling it around.

He nodded, listening. "Alright, I'll tell you." You licked your lips, lacing your own fingers together, studying him. "Like I said before, my father beat us both... It was exhausting. The days went by and I was filled with this feeling of resentment and hatred toward him."

"I wanted him to die," you added. Dex, who was just taking a sip of his coffee, froze with the cup against his lips, staring at you, as if that had surprised him for a few seconds—or intrigued him.

"I didn't care how. I wanted him to die any way possible: an overdose, an accident, murder, even suicide." You took a sip of your cappuccino, so your throat wouldn't go dry. "And one day, I asked myself... if no one else is going to stop him, why not me?" you said, matter-of-factly. "So I decided... to kill him." Your voice sharpened into something serious, and then you looked at him.

"It was very easy. All I had to do was wait until he fell asleep on the sofa. I grabbed a knife..." Your hand drifted to your own neck, and with your thumb, you traced a line. "And I slit his throat."

Dex set his coffee down on the table, processing your words, and asked, "How did you feel?" Not with morbid curiosity (or maybe a little), but with genuine curiosity. He wanted to understand you better.

"I felt... that I did the right thing. I don't regret what I did. And if you asked me whether I'd do it again... the answer would be yes," you said, looking at him.

He nodded slowly, without looking away. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, and then murmured, "Then you did the right thing." It wasn't an opinion; it was an affirmation of your decision. You smiled again at that. Then, he added, "And now? Would you kill again?" It wasn't a challenge, but a genuine curiosity. He wanted to know how far your darkness reached.

"Yes. If I had to, I would," you admitted, looking at him. He smiled again, off to one side, satisfied with that answer.

"You know... I used to kill when I was little, too. Well, not people, of course... it was animals," he confessed, and you tilted your head to one side.

"Oh, really?" And he hummed, taking another sip of coffee.

"They were street animals... you know, weasels, some ducks, cats..." he toyed with the rim of his cup. "At first I felt sorry for it, but then... I liked it. It was an incredible sensation," he looked at you. "Though my therapist didn't agree," he added, with a short laugh.

You laughed a little with him, and he added, "I even skinned a chicken once..." he said it with a hint of pride, for your benefit.

And then, without warning, after a pause, he opened his mouth and let out a guttural, high-pitched noise—a clumsy imitation of a chicken's clucking. Literally. And the best part was that he did it so well that even he surprised himself. It wasn't an exaggerated noise; more like a raspy "CRŌ-CRŌ," as if he were trying to remember how chickens sounded in the old farm movies.

There was a silence between the two of you, your smile vanishing entirely at the sound. What the hell had just happened? Had you just witnessed Dex imitate a chicken?

The poor man was staring at you, and when you didn't laugh, he grew embarrassed and began to laugh at himself, resting his elbows on the table and covering his face with both hands, hiding his flushed cheeks. "Oh, god.."

You pressed your lips together, suppressing a laugh. But you just couldn't help it—he was too funny like this. And you laughed at it, covering your mouth. It was possibly one of the few times you'd laughed for real, and at something so ridiculous, no less.

Dex looked up after a few seconds, and seeing you laugh, began to follow your laughter, laughing with you as he let the embarrassment fade.

"Did you just... imitate a chicken?" you asked, holding back laughter, speaking in gasps because of how funny it was to you.

Dex nodded. "Yeah... that's what it sounded like. More or less."

"I think the sound's deeper..." you laughed in between. "More barnyard." And without warning, you went along with it, doing your own imitation of that chicken. "CRŌ–CRŌ."

Now it was Dex who fell silent, though not seriously. On the contrary, he was mesmerised. He laughed a little, and shook his head. "I have to say, mine is definitely better," he said, without remorse.

You opened your mouth, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me? Yours sounded like a run-over hen. Mine is so much better."

He shook his head again, taking a sip of his coffee. "No."

You narrowed your eyes, displeased with his answer, and listened to his next question. "And what happened next?"

"Well, my mother abandoned me later... and I was put in psychiatric centres or reformatories. Nobody took me in, so I lived there until I was eighteen."

He blinked, and nodded. "I was also... well, in an orphanage, in my case," he admitted, opening up to you. "Until I was eighteen, and then I enlisted."

You frowned for a few seconds. "What... happened to your parents?" Curious.

"They died," he mentioned. "I don't really remember how... but I imagine they passed away in an accident," he looked at you.

"Oh... I'm sorry about your parents," you said, looking at him. Your hand moved softly toward his, without quite touching.

Dex looked at your hand for a few seconds. "It's okay... Either way, it's not like they were very pleasant, to say the least. My childhood was shit, in general," he added, without remorse.

"Do you think they deserved to die?" you asked, directly.

He sighed. "I feel like they abandoned me, honestly. But... yeah, I'd say they deserved to die," he admitted, looking at you.

You smiled a little, without moving your hand.

"They sent me to the orphanage after that. I was there for quite a while. Didn't make any friends, but I passed the time playing baseball with the other kids. The only person I was really close to was my coach. He said I was pretty good at hitting the ball." He smiled at the memory. "But sometimes he wouldn't let me play enough... He told me I had to let the other kids have a turn, but why? I was the best one on the team. It made no sense to bench me. It made me feel useless, not being able to do anything. And in a moment of rage, I threw the ball at him, and well... I killed him." He blinked, letting the last words drop as if they meant nothing.

You stayed quiet for a few seconds, then tilted your head softly, studying him.

"That man clearly didn't understand your talent for the sport. You were right to strike him down..." you replied, trying to justify his act, your eyes gleaming. He simply laughed a little.

"Then I met my therapist, Doctor Mercer... She helped me a lot," he added. "Sadly, she passed away from her illness. I felt so much rage..." he sighed at the abandonment of his therapist. "After that, like I said, I joined the army for a few years, and then I signed up for the suicide prevention group," he added. "And that's where I met Julie."

You rested a hand on your cheek, humming as you listened to him.

"You know the rest. I've been watching her since the day I met her. But... like... like I said before, I'm not interested in her that way... sexually," he commented, that uncomfortable word making him reach for his coffee cup.

You smiled, and asked directly. "Have you ever had sex?"

The question caught him off guard, and he choked slightly on his coffee. He wiped the corner of his lips with the back of his hand and stared at you, his eyes slightly wider than normal.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a simple question," you said, without erasing your smile. "Yes... or no?"

He fell silent for a few seconds. His fingers drummed on the table. Finally, he shook his head.

"No. Not... in the strictest sense." He paused. "I've had... opportunities. But I didn't..." He shook his head again. "No."

You knew it. A virgin.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not interested, I think. At least not right now." He looked directly at you. "I didn't... I didn't feel anything. And without that, it's..." He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't know. It's strange. It's like my body and my head are two completely separate things. And sex is..." He grimaced. "...complicated."

Dex averted his gaze, his fingers still drumming on the table. Then, his voice even lower, he added:

"There was this one time... a woman. From the FBI." He swallowed. "We were colleagues, I guess. But her way of expressing herself was different. She'd touch my arm sometimes, let her hand brush against my... chest. I thought it was normal at first, but I wasn't really comfortable with it. I tried to tell her so many times... pushing her away or saying I didn't like it, but she never listened. One day, I remember she called me for a meeting, said everyone would be there. I believed her at the time, in those early years. And when I showed up... she took me into a small room and started undoing my belt. She touched me. She tried to... you know. And I didn't... I didn't want it. I told her, but she didn't listen."

He looked up at you, and for an instant, you saw something in his eyes that you had never seen before: fear, or something broken.

"I left. I just... got up and left. And she insulted me, called me a faggot, a freak, an abnormal, said I didn't know what I was missing." Dex shrugged, as if to downplay it, but his voice betrayed him. "I've never told anyone at work. I haven't even... well, reported it or told Hattley."

You fell silent, processing his words. Then, with an almost clinical calm, you asked:

"What's her name?"

Dex looked at you, bewildered.

"Why?"

"Because no one gets to hurt you and just walk away like it's nothing." Your voice turned cold for a few moments. "Tell me her name. I'll take care of her."

He blinked, his eyes fixed on you, and shook his head softly.

"No, no. I don't want you to do anything. I just... wanted you to know," he said, his fingers drumming on the table. "It's the first time I've ever told anyone... I don't want you to end up... doing something stupid."

"I don't see it as stupid," you replied, with a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "It would be justice, don't you think?"

It was the very same thought Dex had once had, back when he was on the phone with that young man. Even if a part of him wanted the woman who abused him dead, it would bring more trouble. And he didn't want you to do it, for your own sake.

He shook his head again. "No. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me. You've already got enough with the suspension..."

You frowned, scoffing. "I don't care about the suspension anymore."

"Well, I do." His voice came out harsher than he probably intended. You fell silent, watching him. "I'm not going to let you ruin your career over something that happened years ago. I've already gotten over it."

You pressed your lips together, doubtful. If you were him, you'd end that woman's life, honestly. But you respected his limits, or the ones he was forbidding you to cross.

"Alright... I won't do anything you don't want me to," you said.

Dex squinted for a few seconds, as if he couldn't quite believe you were capable of respecting his boundaries without questioning them.

"Do you mean it?"

You nodded, looking at him. "I won't do anything you don't want me to," you repeated. "But believe me... I would do anything for you," you admitted, serious.

He nodded to himself, and his shoulders relaxed a little. Slowly, his hand moved toward yours, the one resting on the table. He touched the back of your hand with his thumb. You gently turned your hand and laced your fingers through his, without saying a word. He didn't pull away; on the contrary, he squeezed your hand a little, still stroking it. And you stayed like that, in silence.

After a while, he glanced at his wristwatch, breaking the silence. "I should get back to the hotel..." His voice sounded more like a lament than a farewell.

You nodded, without pulling your hand away. You knew he had to go back there at some point; after all, he was still "working."

"Fisk will be waiting," he added, as if he needed to justify it. "And Lim can't cover my shift all day."

"I know." And it was true. There was no reproach in your voice.

Dex squeezed your fingers for an instant, then gently withdrew his hand.

"Would you... would you like me to walk you home?" he asked finally.

You smiled for a few brief seconds. "That won't be necessary... but thank you." After several seconds, seeing he was about to leave, you remembered something. "Oh, wait. I can give you my number, if you want. That way we can talk whenever." You grabbed your phone, offering it to him.

He stood frozen for several seconds, his gaze dropping to the phone. He took it firmly and typed your number into his own cellphone. "I will... thank you," he said, then handed the phone back to you. He stood, adjusting his jacket with that mechanical gesture of his. "See you around. I hope to see you again."

"Me too," you replied, watching him from your seat.

You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And with that, you were alone once more. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.

You watched Dex leave, disappearing among the crowd on the street. And so you were alone again. You drank the last few sips of your cappuccino, now completely cold, and then left yourself.

Your hands were tucked into the pockets of your hoodie, smiling inwardly at that warm conversation, paying no attention to your surroundings.

You didn't even notice that someone was watching you from a distance.

Someone with bad intentions.

That afternoon, at the hotel, Fisk was reading reports at his table. But not just any reports.

Dex's files.

Donovan, under Fisk's orders, had delivered several reports on Dex—on his private and psychological life. Fisk had been reading all those files, all that data, while you and Dex were sitting together in that coffee shop.

In his mind, he envisioned the whole story from Dex's childhood, watching the catastrophes of his life unfold as if he were there. The accident of his coach, Doctor Mercer, the drawings, the tapes, Julie, the suicide prevention center... All of it, with Fisk observing. He even imagined how Dex stalked Julie. It was like a drama, a play in black and white.

He snapped back to reality, simply looking at a photo one of his operatives had taken: Dex behind Julie, pursuing her as she ran, just like this morning. Only you, exactly, did not appear in that picture.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Fisk... uh... you don't need to go into detail," Donovan began, "but what's all this about?"

Fisk rose, clasping his hands behind his back. "Right now, I am New York's scapegoat. There are protesters on the street screaming for me to be put back behind bars..." He paused. "And that's nothing more than a nuisance to my plan. Fortunately, it's very easy to distract people." He went on. "Which is why the solution to my problem is very simple..." He glanced at another photograph. "The city needs another villain," he confessed, sliding his hand over the photos, and among them, he revealed a new one.

It was you, this time, with Dex, in that coffee shop. Two specific moments: one where you were both laughing (probably at that ridiculous chicken imitation), and the other where your hands were intertwined. Out of context, someone might think something else, but for Fisk, it was enough to know that you were an obstacle to his plan. For Dex.

He slid another photo across the table—a shot of you walking toward your building. Fisk observed you through the photo with cold detachment, choosing the best course of action to continue his plan.

"But first... I need to get rid of the people who ruin my plan. Who distract..." He raised the photograph of you, showing it to Donovan. "And I would like it to be done as soon as possible. I would not want to... waste the valuable time I have," he added, and sat back down.

Donovan's face froze, staring at Fisk for a few seconds before looking at the photo.

You were in big trouble...

Just below the hotel, in the restaurant, Dex was seated at the bar, dissociating. Toying with a coin between his fingers.

He was thinking about everything that had happened today; this time he didn't feel so overwhelmed. On the contrary, he felt good. Calm, as if a weight had been lifted from him. And the best part was that now he had your contact, and he wanted to see you again as soon as he could.

He could barely believe it himself—that he'd be capable of meeting someone like him, someone who understood him.

"Would you like something to drink?" That question made him blink, returning to the world. He turned his head, and his eyes widened slightly.

It was Julie. Wait, what?

She was looking at him with that same charming smile as always, and all he could do was open his mouth, unable to answer her. Finally, he laughed. "I think you need more time... I'll bring you some water if you like."

Dex turned his head away, not quite believing that the woman speaking to him now was actually Julie.

She tilted her head gently, smiling at him. "This might sound strange, but... did you work at the Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center?" she asked, watching him.

He looked at her again and stammered until he managed to answer. "Y-yeah, yes... I did. It was... a stressful job."

Julie laughed a little. "You bet..." and she extended her hand toward him. "I guess you don't remember me... I'm Julie."

He stared at her for a few seconds before lowering his gaze to her outstretched hand. "Dex," he reacted, reciprocating by extending his own hand and giving hers a slight squeeze. "And... of course I remember you."

"What a coincidence, right?" she laughed.

"No... we happened to coincide."

"Well... today's my first day at the hotel. They offered me double what I was making at my other job if I started right away. And honestly, I didn't need much convincing." She smiled again. "What about you? Are you staying at the hotel?" she asked him.

"No, no way... I live here... in New York—I mean, uh... no, at the hotel." The words got tangled in his mouth, embarrassing him, but it drew a laugh from Julie.

Oh, God.

"The FBI has an office upstairs," Dex added. "We're guarding... Wilson Fisk."

Julie looked him up and down, somewhat intrigued by his job, and she spoke with an enchanting voice. "A federal agent..."

He gave a lopsided smile, as if flattered by her charm.

Suddenly, a distant voice interrupted the moment, probably a customer. Julie tilted her head toward a woman's table before looking back at him. "I have to go take care of that table or they'll fire me on my first day..." she said, with a touch of humor. She was about to leave, but Dex's question stopped her.

"When does your shift end?"

She turned back, looking at him. "In an hour," she said, and added, "Would you like to meet up afterward? So we can chat..."

He hesitated to answer. If Dex were a believer, he would definitely be kissing God's feet right now, because holy hell, he was having a lot of luck today. "Yeah... uh... yeah, I'd love to."

And so he stayed another hour, all just to spend a little more time with her.

Now the two of them were sitting at a table, drinking wine. Julie was smiling at the conversation they were having. "That's my favorite route, too!" she said. "There's nothing better than running along the west river." She added, and Dex smiled.

"Between your running routes... and the new job, you could say you're stalking me," he laughed.

How ironic.

"Whoa! You caught me," she played along, laughing.

"Tell me... why didn't you stick with social work?" he asked.

She set her glass down on the table, thoughtful. "Well... the truth is, I wanted to be a dancer, and I made it... It went really well, until I tore my knee for... the second time," she added, with regret.

"Oh... I'm sorry. That must've been really hard... but it's admirable that you tried," he managed to say, trying to cheer her up.

"It's just... I didn't have a Plan B. My parents were wrong when they told me I could be whatever I wanted." She shrugged.

"Even if it didn't work out... it must've been nice to hear that..." There was a brief pause. "My... my parents never told me things like that..." he added.

"I don't think you needed it... You've gotten by just fine on your own." That answer of hers made his face light up with the same enchantment he'd had at your words. Only now, it was directed at Julie.

They both laughed together, nervous and a little clumsy. Suddenly, Julie leaned forward, curious. "So... what's it like... working for Wilson Fisk?"

He shook his head. "I don't... I don't work for him... I work for the Federal Government."

"It must be... really scary being so close to someone like him," she said, with a touch of pity.

He scoffed. "I don't have a choice. It's my job."

After a pause, she added, "Do you think someone like that deserves a second chance?"

Without hesitation, he answered. "You worked three years in suicide prevention... You should know better than anyone." He spoke without seeing the consequences.

She frowned. "How do you know I worked there three years? You were only there for one."

Shit.

Dex opened his mouth, trying to control himself. His hand drummed softly on the table. "You... you mentioned it earlier, you quit for ballet..."

"I don't remember mentioning that... specifically ballet," she replied, a little frightened.

"I guess... I just assumed," he tried to justify.

Julie looked at him for a few seconds, then gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was uncomfortable.

"I should probably go... It's late. And I need to rest."

"Are you standing me up?" he asked, not quite believing it, smiling nervously.

"No, no! Not at all. It's just... I have to feed my dog," she mentioned, gathering her things.

"You don't have a dog," his expression shifted to something colder as he looked at her.

She turned her head, more frightened than before. "How do you know that?"

Neither of them moved after that revelation. Until Julie stood up quickly.

"Julie, Julie, wait." He tried to grab her. "You're misunderstanding... Let me buy you dinner, let's take a walk and I'll explain it, really..."

She tossed a bill onto the table. "I'll buy," she said, turning away again. But this time, Dex grabbed her arm, with some force, stopping her.

"Julie." He looked at her. "You're very special to me."

"Let go of me, Dex..."

"Please..."

"I said let go of me!" she repeated, her voice loud, wrenching her arm free from his grip, and she left quickly.

The people in the restaurant were stunned by the scene, some staring at Dex, others simply ignoring it. Meanwhile, inside Dex's head, he was starting to get nervous, agitated. Those flies buzzed back and forth, over and over, and he couldn't control it.

He had ruined his own chance.

Night fell over your apartment. Your bedroom was lit by the orange glow of the lamp on your desk. You had been reading a new book you'd picked up at a nearby bookstore—it was about strange diseases and how they formed in the body... You still remember the look on the shop assistant's face when she saw what book you were carrying, as if you were some kind of weirdo. And the truth was, you were.

Your fingers slid over the pages, studying the images with attention and fascination. Someday, you were interested in possibly conducting some kind of experiment like that. Though you doubted you'd ever pull it off.

At some point, you felt the urge to drink something, so you slid your chair across the floor to stand up. Your bare feet padded silently as you walked into the kitchen. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, drinking it slowly.

You held the glass away for a few seconds, looking at it for no apparent reason. But then you frowned as you noticed something reddish pointing at it, like a laser, right next to your cheek.

It took you a moment to realize it wasn't just a simple laser.

Your eyes flew open and you dropped the glass just before a shot rang out from somewhere. Your window shattered from the bullet, and the glass in your hand exploded, its fragments spraying against your face, cutting your cheek and chin.

You ducked behind the counter, your heart racing. Your hand reached out blindly, trying to find something on top of the counter, but another shot sounded right beside you, making you startle again.

You slid across the floor, opened the utensil drawer, and grabbed a sharp knife. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at the shattered window, revealing a sniper in the building opposite.

"Shit..." you muttered under your breath, trying to spot an exit. On the other side was your bedroom; you could make it back there, but you'd need a lot of luck to get there unscathed. You braced yourself, ready to run.

Your feet sprang into action, dashing toward the bedroom, but another shot rang out—one that went straight into your arm. You screamed in pain, pressing your hand against the wound, feeling the blood run through your fingers. You gritted your teeth and kept moving toward your bedroom.

Quickly, you yanked open the closet door, shut yourself inside, and waited to see what would happen, the knife clutched in your hand.

You tried to stifle your cries from the intense pain the bullet was causing in your skin. You could feel tears sliding down your face, mingling with sweat.

And suddenly, you heard footsteps. First, the sound of glass—probably the window being completely smashed. Then someone entering, walking slowly.

You waited for the right moment to attack when he came close, wanting to see who had attacked you. But the night was long, and luck was not on your side.

Something started buzzing in your pocket.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your hand trembling. You felt around to see what it was, and it was nothing other than your own phone.

It was Dex. Calling you.

"Not now..." you whispered to yourself, not answering. You didn't know whether to hang up, because then he might think you didn't want to talk to him, which was a lie. You did want to, just not right now.

You cracked open the closet door, tossed the phone onto the bed, where it let out a soft buzz before going silent.

The footsteps you'd heard earlier changed direction, moving cautiously toward your bedroom. You held your position, waiting.

Again, another insistent buzz. Dex was calling you again, impatient. What did he want?

The good thing was that it drew the attention of that suspicious person, who moved closer to your bedroom. And through the sliver of light from your closet, you could make out his silhouette. It was a man, wearing almost military-style clothes, but not like a cop—more like a street thug. He was pointing a pistol everywhere as he moved, until he reached your phone.

He stared at it for several seconds, and without hesitation, he declined the call, which only pissed you off.

With a kick, you burst out of the closet, hurling yourself at him. You slashed the knife toward his torso, trying to cut him, but he recoiled quickly. Instead, he seized your face and slammed it hard against the closet, sending blood pouring from your nose. You fell to the floor in agony, trying not to move your left arm because of the bullet lodged there, but it was impossible.

He laughed a little at the state you were in and began reloading his pistol, aiming it at you.

With your other arm, you grabbed the knife and drove it into his leg, making him let out a groan and fire a shot into the floor by accident.

"You bitch!" he spat through clenched teeth, the knife still buried in his leg. You scrambled to your feet quickly, limping as you tried to escape his grasp.

But he caught up with you. His hand seized your ankle and yanked hard, sending you crashing face-first into the floor. The impact tore a grunt from your throat. You rolled over, kicking, struggling, as he tried to pin you down with his weight.

You managed to reach the handle of the knife still jutting from his leg. You pulled it free with a sharp jerk, drawing a sharp hiss from between his teeth. The blade came out smeared in dark red, and without a second thought, you raised it to bury it in his chest.

He saw it coming. His fist slammed into your stomach, just below the sternum. The air fled your lungs; you spat saliva and blood, doubling over yourself, but you didn't fall.

With a growl, you lunged forward and drove the knife into his side. The man's eyes flew wide, a wet gurgle escaping his throat. He staggered back and dropped to his knees. He ground his teeth, spitting up a gush of blood, but he didn't get up again.

You rose as best you could, panting, the knife still in your hand, ready to finish him off—and you did. You stabbed him again, over and over, gasping, broken, as the blood splattered across your face.

"Die!" you shouted, your voice shattered, driving the blade deeper and deeper. But then a figure seized your hand with force, stopping your movements cold.

"Hey, hey. Enough." A raspy voice spoke. You spun around, the weapon raised, and you saw him. There he was. The stranger in black. The same figure who had been tailing you, the same compact silhouette that had appeared in your apartment. His face was hidden behind a black mask. You couldn't see his eyes, but you knew he was staring at you.

"That's enough," he repeated.

"And who the hell are you?" you demanded, raising the bloodied knife toward him. Your vision was slowly blurring. Finally, without any answer from him, you lunged at him.

The knife carved a swift arc toward his chest, but the stranger moved with impossible fluidity. He dodged the slash effortlessly, twisting his torso just enough for the blade to graze his clothes without cutting him. He took a step back, raising his hands, palms open.

"I don't want to hurt you..." he said. "I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need your help!" you screamed, and attacked again.

This time, he caught your wrist in midair. His fingers were like a vise, but they didn't squeeze. They only held you. He pulled you toward him and, with a sharp movement, disarmed you with ease. The knife clattered to the floor, beyond your reach, and you tried to struggle, already drained of strength. You punched his chest with your fist, once, twice, three times. He didn't even flinch. Your breathing was a reedy whistle, your body at its absolute limit, but you refused to give up.

"Let go of me, goddammit!"

He released you, and you pitched forward as your body gave out. The man caught your shoulders, trying to steady you. "You're not okay..."

"I'm fine... I don't need your... fucking help..." you said, your words ragged, strengthless. You were definitely not fine; your head was spinning relentlessly, your vision was failing. Blood was dripping from your nose onto your lips, your face was cut, and that bullet in your arm had surely cost you a great deal of blood. You simply didn't want to feel weak.

But your knees gave way, and you crumpled to the floor. By some stroke of luck—thank God—the man caught you before your skull hit the ground.

"You're so stubborn..." he murmured. Slowly, he slid one arm under your knees and another beneath your back, lifting you carefully against his chest.

You had no idea where that figure was taking you, but at times, your fading consciousness caught fragments of words.

«Who is she?» asked a woman's voice, stern.

«Someone who helped me once... I'm returning the favor,» he replied. «She needs help now.»

You suddenly felt cold hands on your face, and a damp cloth.

The woman stared at you for a moment. «Leave her here... I'll take care of it. And go, before she recognizes you.»

He nodded, looking at you one last time, without his mask this time, before turning away and disappearing from that unknown room.

What was happening? Where were you? Who were these people?

Your questions went unanswered, because in the end, you closed your eyes one final time. Your body lay still and relaxed, letting unconsciousness claim you. Letting you, at last, breathe.

From the day of the gift, things went further than you could ever have imagined.

At work, Dex began to approach you cautiously. He spoke to you a few times, asking how your day was going, whether you had slept well... and he even started paying you compliments.

"Nice sweater, by the way," he would say with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

You responded with charm, satisfied by the change in him. You believed that he had liked the gift and that he now felt comfortable around you.

But what you never imagined was that now, he was the one stalking you.

You had always thought that, at least between the two of you, you were the only one who watched and pursued. But from that day forward, it turned out that Dex had been observing you. The entire time.

It began at work. Perhaps he watched you as you worked with precision, and he stood there, observing how you extracted an embedded bullet from a cadaver's skull.

It would not have bothered you, given that this was what you had wanted, was it not? For him to look at you and see how you were from the inside.

But things went further.

When you went to the hotel to deliver reports on the Albanian case or to chat with Nadeem, he watched you through the security cameras. One by one.

If you went to the bar to order something? No matter; he would secretly switch cameras to keep an eye on you. Were you walking through the corridors? He watched you from there. Always, always watching you.

All of this was because he was trying to understand who you truly were. To know if everything you did was a lie. If you worked for someone hidden in the shadows.

The predator had found another predator, and he did not know whether you were a threat or simply someone who understood him.

That is why it reached the point where he was stalking you even in your private life. He discovered where you lived, and perhaps, he had watched you sleep in your warm bed from the window, by the fire escape.

He had been doing it for days.

At times, he thought about entering your apartment, but he did not go through with it because of the reaction you might have. What if you insulted him? What if he was wrong and it was simply a crude joke?

That is why he began to enter on his own when you were not there.

He reviewed everything he found, from simple pieces of furniture to the books you owned. Your personal items—such as clothes, shampoo, brushes, etc.—he did not touch, as they seemed disgusting and unnecessary to him.

Meanwhile, you saw that Dex was now more attentive to things, which made you more cautious when observing him, both at work and outside. You saw how, sometimes, he would look around outside, as if he was beginning to suspect your presence watching him.

Furthermore, lately you had noticed strange things in your apartment. Despite everything being in order, just as you had left it, on occasion, when you picked up one of your books, it felt warm. As if someone had been holding it a short while ago.

Had someone entered your apartment? you began to wonder.

Today was a normal day. Days had passed since the ambush, your wounds were now healed, and you no longer wore bandages. Only a reddish line remained on your cheek. The atmosphere at the FBI was calmer, though most were now more concerned with the Fisk situation. News flew from one side to the other, most of it criticizing the officials' position, and at times you saw Nadeem looking stressed by the press or the police assignments.

You were in the main room, where most of the officers were at their computers or chatting. You had to make photocopies of a couple of analyses a colleague of yours had done. You sighed, waiting, drumming your fingers lightly on the printer.

And in the meantime, from behind you, Dex was watching. With a calculating stare, his jaw clenched tight.

He was one hundred percent sure now that it was entirely you. And that you were not normal, but he prayed that you were simply a little weird, nothing more. It was clear he could not accept the fact that there might be someone like him.

He was taking a huge gamble if you were not.

So he adjusted his posture. He had to make a move once and for all; he was not going to stand idly by. He put on a false smile behind your back, trying to look his best.

"Lots of paperwork?" he asked, and you turned around.

"Oh, well... yes, a lot. But it's my job either way," you replied with a sweet smile.

He nodded, placing a hand in his pocket. "Hattley wants to see you." A lopsided smile flickered across his face for a split second. "She told me to let you know."

You frowned. Hattley? What for? you wondered. "...Ah, yeah?" And he nodded again.

"She's in another room, the meeting room. Don't worry, it's nothing bad." He smiled again, a smile that did not reach his eyes.

You narrowed your eyes for a second, then nodded. "Alright, lead the way, then."

He gave you another smile, turning around and starting to walk. You followed him, moving away from the area. Though you could not see it, Dex's expression was becoming less and less neutral; he began clenching his hand at times, blinking a little, and grinding his teeth internally. It was clear that at some point, he was going to explode.

You, on the other hand, observed that he was leading you further and further away from public areas, into zones with fewer people. You were already smelling something suspicious.

"...So, what do you—?"

You had no time to react. Suddenly, Dex grabbed your arm forcefully and shoved you into a narrow, small room, the typical kind used for storing cleaning chemicals, making you crash against the wall and several objects.

Your eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, before he flicked on the warm light. And when you were about to speak, with firmness, he seized your throat, cutting off some of your air.

"What do you want?" He asked, coldly. Your hands flew to his arm, giving him light slaps to make him ease the pressure. But the more you did, the tighter he squeezed.

In the end, you laughed softly, despite the lack of air. But you saw how his hand loosened a little, and his eyes watched you with depth. "You think this is funny?" he asked again.

"I don't think Julie would like—..." You let out a soft whimper as you felt his grip tighten on your throat again.

"Don't. Talk. About. Julie," he said, with anger. His breathing began to quicken, slowly. "What's your game? I don't need any of your favors."

"Favor...?" You tried to shake your head. "No, no, no... I don't want a favor. I was just trying to let you know that I understand you." You added, your eyes glossy. "The ambush was nothing more than a resource to get to know you more deeply... And to discover that Agent Poindexter—" you swallowed, your voice hoarse, "—has more history than anyone could imagine. His extraordinary aim... His obsession with Ju—..." You fell silent again, from the force with which he was squeezing your throat.

He lowered his head for a few seconds and breathed deeply. His hand trembled, and finally, he let it fall slowly. Immediately, your own hand went to your throat, coughing a little.

He clicked his tongue for a few seconds, then rubbed his face slowly and sighed. He was annoyed and irritated.

"You think... that just because you watched me a couple of times, you know everything about me?" He asked you, staring. "No. You know. Nothing. About me."

You massage your neck, watching him slowly fall apart, watching him become more vulnerable in a simple, dimly lit room.

"It's true," you say, your voice raspy. You clear your throat. "I don't know anything about you." You take a deep breath. "But I want to. I've wanted to know about you for years."

Dex clenches his hands a little, restless, but it is because he knows you are entering darker territory.

"You probably had a shitty childhood, didn't you?" Your eyes glisten, and you press your lips together. For the first time, in front of him, you were vulnerable. You were pouring your heart out to him, showing him who you really were. He says nothing, just looks at you, but you can see his eyes are glistening too, as if he is holding back tears.

"Me too," you add, seeing he hasn't answered, laughing lowly and looking away. "I had a very abusive father in my life, and to be honest, he wasn't very pleasant, to say the least..." You look back at him.

He didn't respond. He just stood there staring at you, barely blinking.

You swallowed. It pained you to see yourself like this, so... broken and vulnerable. You might even say you hated yourself.

"I don't know how to act like myself around people... I've been faking it in front of them, with emotions I don't even feel. I can laugh, smile, even come across as empathetic... But I just can't. I can't do it."

You rub your face slowly, leaving a short silence, before letting your hands fall.

"I've felt invisible my whole life. To my father, my mother... Even everyone here, except for Nadeem. He respects me. But he doesn't see who I really am." You hug yourself, with an almost childlike gesture. "If he knew what I'm really like... He probably wouldn't want to speak to me ever again."

You sigh.

"Until you came along... That time, when I saw you in the cafeteria for the first time," you let out. "People praised you, they respected you for your work or your aim, whatever it was. And that... that sparked an enormous curiosity in me. I saw that... you were correct in your work, chivalrous, and often very perfectionist."

You could see Dex's face slowly shift into something resembling sadness. Perhaps he felt nothing, but he was trying to empathize with the pain, or the release, you were giving him.

"So... I started following you," you admit. "In a way that most people probably wouldn't understand, but you would." You rubbed your arms softly. "And I thought... what if I gave you back that magazine, if I showed you I wasn't afraid of you... that you don't disgust me... that... I understood you." You pause for a second. "Maybe you would see me. Again."

A single tear falls down your cheek, but you don't wipe it away. It wasn't necessary now.

"And I'm scared," you admit again, laughing to yourself, in front of him. "Now that I'm telling you all this... I'm scared you'll reject me, because if you don't understand either... No one is going to understand. And I'll be alone, again."

You see he makes no gesture, no movement, he is just static, not knowing what to do. You narrow your eyes for a few seconds, watching his hand drift slowly toward his pocket.

"If you're going to kill me. Kill me," you announce. "I'm not afraid of dying." You comment, looking at the pistol inside his pocket. That's when Dex's hand stops, touching the edge of the gun.

He pulls out the pistol. He doesn't say a word. He simply presses the barrel against your forehead. The contact is cold. You stare at the trigger for a few seconds, then sigh softly, closing your eyes.

If this is the end, so be it. At least he will have been the last person to see you.

However, you frown a little as more than several seconds pass, and Dex still hasn't pulled the trigger. And you notice the pistol is trembling slightly. When you open your eyes again, you see his face crumbling, and you were sure you saw a tear fall from his eye. His jaw was trembling.

He couldn't kill you.

He took a deep breath, and despite his efforts to pull the trigger, he couldn't. He simply didn't have the strength to do it.

He lowers the pistol slowly, without saying a word. He puts it back in his pocket and rubs his face again, trying to calm himself with rough movements against his skin. You can hear a soft, trembling sigh escape his throat; he isn't even looking at your face. He couldn't, not right now, not after this. Or at least, not for the moment.

Lowering his hands, he turns around, opens the door, and closes it behind him.

You massage your neck again, confused by his reaction, but then you thought. Of course. If he killed you now, he would be completely alone again. Which suggests that he has accepted you, in his own way, you suppose. Or that he is trying to.

Killing you would have been like killing his own hope, because he doesn't really want to be alone. Your death might have felt like another abandonment, and he wouldn't want that. He wouldn't want to relive that same trauma.

On the other side of the door, he was trying to calm down. And he did the same steps as always: breathe deeply, straighten his suit or tie, and set his face into neutral features. Slowly, you could hear his footsteps moving away from that door, off to wherever he was going.

You stayed inside there, thinking. If he let you live, it must be for a reason, you think. You wipe your tear with your index finger, staring at nothing. You stay like that for a long while.

Then, you leave that little room, returning to your usual spot. The photocopies were sitting on a small table next to it; it seemed someone had already neatly stacked them.

You had to get back to work, to follow protocol while the questions still churned in your head. At one point, you saw Dex leaving with Lim for outside; he didn't even look at you.

So, you understood it wasn't the right time to keep talking, and with that, you went on with your morning's work.

─── ୨୧ ───

Dex was on his way to the hotel in a car, alongside Lim.

His mind was still trying to process everything that had happened a short while ago; he had been vulnerable in front of a person he barely knew. And it bothered him.

"Dex, park here," Lim says, looking out the window. And he obeys, pulling over to the side.

They walked through the hotel, took the elevator up, and as always, headed for Fisk's penthouse.

The white doors were thrown open forcefully by Dex, and he began to walk with hurried steps toward the stairs, annoyed.

"Come on, upstairs. Room check," he says, moving with urgency toward Fisk's room. "Convict, hands and face against the wall."

Turning around, he is a little surprised inside. To see Fisk already against the wall, literally before his orders, struck him as somewhat strange.

"Search everything..." he orders Lim, who immediately sets about tearing the room apart.

Dex positions himself behind Fisk. "We're going to conduct a room search. You are going to follow our instructions, understood?"

"Understood," Fisk responded instantly.

You move his hands and arms with swift movements towards his, patting him down, even kneeling to check his legs and torso. "I'm going to search you to confirm you have nothing to harm yourself or hurt others with, is that understood?" He asks, firmly.

"Understood," he says again.

"Turn around."

Fisk complies, turning to face him. And they stare at each other for a few seconds, in an awkward, tense silence.

"Are we done?" Fisk asks, looking him up and down.

Dex smiles sideways, an arrogant smile, directed right at him. "All clear." And he walks back toward the door of his room, along with Lim.

As they walk down the stairs, he buttons up his black suit jacket. He sighs, until he finishes buttoning it at the bottom. The empty house made him quite uncomfortable, especially because of that empty white color. He turns around for a few seconds and sees Fisk watching him from above.

He feels his insides churn at his stare, and he slowly averts his gaze, leaving the penthouse again, leaving him alone. He didn't know what Fisk's game was, but he didn't like it. It seemed like he wanted to read his mind, and he already had enough with you; he didn't need anyone else in his world.

That is why, at lunchtime, they were going to ruin his meal.

A lady was approaching the door with a cart, holding a plate: a hamburger with fries. It was unbelievable how that man was going to feast by eating that.

Both Dex and Lim were at the two corners, and they checked the cart for any objects (like a weapon or cell phone). And later, they checked the food. Dex grabbed the hamburger, and without any remorse, took a bite, savoring the meat. He smiled at Lim, satisfied. Lim, meanwhile, pushed the cutlery aside, leaving only two pieces, and dumped the fries onto the wooden tray.

And as a final touch, with his sleeve, Dex wiped the metal plate cover and placed it on top of the tray, as a mockery.

Without a word, they headed to the surveillance room while security took the tray (without any comment on the matter) up to Fisk's penthouse.

They looked like two kids playing a cruel prank.

They watched the cameras with a smile, seeing Fisk, waiting for a reaction from him.

Slowly, he opens the lid without emotion, setting it aside. And the surprising thing was he didn't flinch; on the contrary, he grabbed the cutlery and began to remove the lettuce from the hamburger. Only to then cut it into pieces and start eating.

The smile slowly fades from Dex's face, but he lets out a soft snort.

"To tell you the truth, I wasn't expecting this reaction," he says, watching Fisk through the camera. "Who eats a hamburger with cutlery?" He asks mockingly.

Their expressions change a little when they hear the door open. It was Hattley and Nadeem, along with a supervisor.

"Special Agent Poindexter."

"Ma'am."

"Supervisory Agent Wheel, from the OPR," she introduces him.

"Poindexter," Wheel says. "Why don't you step out for a coffee?" He asks, with a look that would not accept no for an answer.

Dex opens his mouth for a few seconds, bewildered by the question. "Yes, sir..." he says, nodding. He lets out another sigh and proceeds to leave that room, staying outside in the hallway.

He was not alone there for even a second, as Nadeem opened the door behind him. "Dex."

He turns around.

"Don't worry about this," he tries to calm him.

"Don't worry about what?" Dex asks, frowning.

Nadeem glances at the door, as if making sure no one comes out, before looking at him. "The Bureau is trying to conduct an interview with Fisk," he explains.

He narrows his eyes, puzzled. "But he hasn't asked anyone else to leave," he says, not understanding the situation.

Nadeem sighs slowly, preparing himself for what he's about to say. "I am... aware that I shouldn't be telling you this, but the Office of Professional Responsibility has opened an internal investigation into the convoy attack..."

Dex bites the inside of his cheek, but Nadeem wasn't even finished yet.

"And I also shouldn't inform you that they've detected a slight discrepancy between your official report and the forensic analysis of the shooting," he adds.

"Yeah... You're risking your job telling me all this," Dex replies, with some irritation.

Nadeem sighs again, stepping closer to him. "Thanks to you, my wife still has a husband, and my son has a father." He then turns around, leaving him space to process everything he's been told.

Dex stands still, before clicking his tongue and proceeding to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to relax a little, massaging his temples. He was frustrated.

And the worst was yet to come.

In your case, you were downstairs at the hotel. Nadeem had called you half an hour ago; you didn't know the main reasons, he had just told you to come as soon as possible.

And there you were, sitting in a corner of the hotel, fidgeting with your hands. You heard some hurried footsteps and looked up; it was him.

"Sorry for the delay... I had to be in the surveillance room," Nadeem explained, calmly.

"Don't worry," you say, getting up from the chair. You clasp your own hands together, waiting for his explanation. "What's going on?"

Nadeem lets out a slow exhale, as if he wasn't prepared to tell you. "I've received some information that... well, it's quite surprising to me, above all."

You slowly frown a little, confused. "....And?"

"It's not easy to explain... Eh..." He sighs, scratching the back of his neck. "The Office of Professional Responsibility has opened an investigation into what happened during the ambush."

Shit. No. Impossible.

"They've detected a... discrepancy in your forensic report. And in Special Agent Poindexter's official report."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"They don't match," he added, looking directly at you. "And that... well, it means they're going to investigate what happened."

You stand paralyzed by all this information. You open your mouth and stammer to let out a simple, "Ah..." and then you swallow.

"A discrepancy... you say?" You frown. "That's absurd. My report has been impeccable. I didn't make any mistakes; I always review it, you know that."

"I know, I know..." He raised a hand, trying to calm you. "But the OPR has its protocols. They're going to review everything... But don't worry, maybe there was a mistake in the report, right? Stay calm, really. I doubt very much you would have done something like that," he adds.

He sighs again. "But, in the meantime..." He paused, as if it pained him to say it to your face. "You'll be suspended. Just a few days... until they sort it out."

The silence that follows is short, but heavy with meaning. You exhale slowly through your nose, blinking a couple of times.

Impossible.

"Suspend me, really?" You manage to say, your voice somewhat sharp. "Me? For a fucking mistake?" you add.

"It's just a few days... Then you'll be reinstated."

You click your tongue, smiling with mockery. "Yeah, right." You laugh, unable to believe it. "I haven't done anything wrong. Nothing. My report is correct... I-if... If someone found something, let them say it to my face. Who was it? Sasha, Kevin, Harper? Who said there's a discrepancy?" You ask, your voice choppy and angry.

Nadeem shook his head definitively, looking somewhat sorry for you.

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry. But it's not personal, I promise. It's protocol. You know how these things work..."

You press your lips together. Your mind goes blank as you listen to Nadeem continue talking through a muffled noise.

«You can rest these days if you want... You've been working all these days... How's your hand, by the way?»

You had a lost look in your eyes, and your right hand began to clench at your side, feeling your nails slowly digging into the flesh of your palm.

You completely ignore his question and look at him again. "And what am I supposed to do now?" You ask, watching him. "Stay at home staring at the ceiling while they look at my report as if I were a criminal?"

"You're not a criminal." Nadeem takes a step toward you. "Nobody thinks that, believe me. But this is how the OPR is; they have to do their job. And I... I need you to trust me, please. I promise you nothing is going to happen."

You stayed silent. Inside, your mind was racing, processing all the information he had been giving you, and there were countless questions spinning around in your head.

In the end, Nadeem sighed, and gave you a few gentle pats on the shoulder, which annoyed you more than they encouraged you. "Take care, and don't do... anything weird, okay? Get some rest."

You nod slowly. And Nadeem proceeds to leave, walking away down the corridor.

The moment he disappeared, your expression crumbled, your breathing had become agitated for a few seconds. You rubbed your face with both hands, roughly, as if you wanted to wipe away all the weight on them. Your hair got a little disheveled from the brusqueness of your hands, and you smoothed it back, tucking it behind your ears.

God, you wanted so badly to hit something.

All afternoon you wandered around the offices. It turns out your personalized card (the kind you used to open the laboratory doors) had been deactivated. Just as Nadeem said, since you were temporarily suspended, you no longer had access to the work rooms.

You felt cornered. If you no longer had access to the materials, what could you do? They couldn't do this just because; it was absurd. A simple mistake on your part.

You'll find another way to fix it.

Meanwhile, across the city, at the hotel, Dex was somewhat paranoid. The interview they had already given to Fisk put him on edge, because it meant that if Fisk confirmed what he'd seen there, that brutal slaughter, his career would be over. And if his career was over, he would break.

He enters the surveillance room again; there's no one there except Lim, his coworker.

"Hasn't your relief arrived yet?"

"Has everyone else left already?" Dex asks, acting naturally, looking around.

Lim nods, and Dex simply replies with a "Good. Very good," his hands in his pockets.

Slowly, he pulls a couple of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto his desk. "Why don't you... go down and grab a coffee? My treat," he proposes.

Lim's face is neutral at first, but then he smiles seeing his colleague offer him that gesture. "Yeah, why not? It'll do me good." And so, he gets up, grabbing those bills.

Dex waited patiently for him to leave, listening to the door close. Good. Now he was completely alone in the room, perfect.

He remains standing, and heads for the computers, pushing the swivel chair out of his way. On the cameras, he observes the live feed closely, but that's not what he wants. He wants to see the interview.

With a button, he rewinds everything, right from the beginning of the interview.

He was trembling slightly, impatient to know what they had asked him, and above all, Fisk's answer.

On the recordings, you can see Hattley throw down a folder and point with her finger at a photo of some Albanian.

"Do you know this subject?" she asks.

"He was among the Albanians who attacked the convoy," Fisk announces.

"Did you see these men die?" Wheel, the supervisory agent, points out.

"Yes, that's correct," he confirms.

"And did you see who shot them?" he asks again.

Dex clenches his jaw.

"Only one FBI agent was left standing... Special Agent Poindexter," he reveals.

"For the record, in the report, could you describe what you saw when he shot them?" he asks again.

Fisk remains silent for a few seconds, before finding his answer. "They were armed." He pauses. "Special Agent Poindexter gave them a chance to surrender, but they raised their weapons to fire at him." Another slight pause. "He killed them in self-defense."

Dex lowers his head gently, unable to believe it. He let out a shaky sigh. Fisk had lied perfectly to the two of them with an incredible naturalness.

While listening to Hattley and the supervisor leave, he raised his head again, watching the camera reflecting Fisk... Why? Why did he lie? What does he want from him?

Slowly, Fisk looks at the camera, creating the illusion that Fisk was staring coldly at Dex through the screen.

His insides churn again under that stare, feeling scared, or so he thinks. But no, he doesn't have to feel that way. He doesn't need any help from him, least of all from a criminal.

He pauses the recording, and to avoid arousing suspicion, he shuts off every camera. Then, he leaves that room, heading for the penthouse. He throws the doors open forcefully and sees him, directly ahead, seated at his table without moving.

He stands in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists several times. "What's your game?" he asks, just like that time with you.

"Game?" Fisk asks, feigning ignorance.

"I don't need any favors from you, convict," he says, his voice sharp. He was about to turn around, but Fisk responds.

"Not favors. Support," he announces. "Papers... Protests, mockery. I can endure humiliations like that, but you are a dedicated special agent."

Dex steps closer again, with hurried strides. "You don't know anything about me," he says, coldly. And there, Fisk gently tosses the day's newspaper. "The Bulletin, neither." It was a criticism of the FBI, regarding his transfer to the hotel.

"The press has called the attack on my life... an FBI disaster." He lets the silence surround them. "And now they're investigating you for doing your job. They're questioning you for being exceptional... You saved my life!" He raises his voice, as if delivering a motivational speech. "And you saved the lives of other federal agents! But has any of that been mentioned? No." He pauses. "Instead they denigrate... And belittle your bravery."

There is a tense silence between the two of them. Dex doesn't respond to what he's saying; he stays silent, listening to his words. He doesn't want to believe him.

And suddenly, Fisk drags his chair back, looking at him. Immediately, Dex grabs the side of his pants, gripping the edge of his pistol.

"The world is changing. True heroes are ridiculed and... wasted. And that's why... I offer you my support."

Dex blinks a couple of times, that thought in his head. He shakes his head slowly and begins to take a step back, before turning around and leaving.

As he walks out, breathing deeply, he tries to get Fisk's stare out of his head. It made him uncomfortable, but the worst part was that his words made him feel good. Like... valued. Fisk valued him as the agent he was; he offered support. What he needed.

But no, he can't think that. He's a fugitive. One of the worst. Why believe him?

No, Dex, stop thinking about that.

He starts walking toward the elevator, and as he descends, his mind eventually lands on you, for some reason.

You haven't spoken since that scene at the door, which was only... how long? A few hours? He remembered the words you had said to him, how you saw in him a strange support. And he, though he hadn't told you, felt somewhat valued by the trust and the outpouring you had placed in him.

Perhaps that was what he needed now. You. Support. Someone he could talk to about everything, even the darkest of his thoughts. Someone who would value him without disgust or fear.

He suddenly pulled out his phone, thoughtful. Shit, that's right, he didn't have your number.

When he went back to the FBI offices, you weren't there. You'd gone home a good while ago; in the end, you had listened to Nadeem.

What was left?

He only had one option: go to your apartment. But how? If he showed up there, you'd be suspicious about how he knew where you lived. But he had no other choice.

So now, he's standing in front of your door. He took a deep breath, and with his hand trembling, he rang the bell.

A soft chime sounded, and it only took you a few seconds to open the door. The door revealed your state: you were wearing a dark blue t-shirt and plain, short black pants. You were also barefoot, just in your socks. You stood still for a few seconds, not knowing what to say about it, but your expression said it all; you were surprised.

"Hey... uh..." Dex started. He was quite nervous, fidgeting with his hands. "I wanted to... well, I just wanted to come by and... see you. Yeah," he clarified.

You frowned for a few seconds. "What? No... I don't understand. What– what are you doing? How did you know my...?"

"I know you have a lot of questions, but please... please. I need you to let me in," he says, with glistening eyes. "Please." You saw a different expression on him, one you'd say was almost identical to the one in that room—scared and vulnerable.

After a few seconds, you give in. You step aside, silently giving him the invitation. You hear a trembling sigh, and he walks in. Slowly, you close the door behind him.

"Thank you... thank you, really..." he added.

You said nothing, you just looked him up and down.

After a few seconds pass, you gesture with your head toward the nearby sofa. "You can sit if you want... You don't have to stand, you know?" And you see him immediately sit on the sofa, trying not to disturb it too much. He was rigid, but his expression was crumbling.

You approached him slowly, carefully. He had a lost, aimless look in his eyes.

Shit. Was it a good idea to come? What if I'm scaring her?

"Hey," you say, kneeling a little to look at him. "Do you want... coffee or something? I can make you something, if you want," you offered.

He blinks suddenly, as if your question had pulled him from his thoughts, and he looks at you. "Yes... Yeah, yeah. A coffee would be nice. Please."

You nod, getting up slowly. You head to the kitchen, preparing a decaf coffee, plain, just the way he liked it. In the living room, the only thing that could be heard was the noise of the coffee maker; it was awkward.

Meanwhile, you proceed to make yourself a tea, setting the green cup aside.

You carry the coffee cup toward him, handing it over carefully. "It's hot, be careful," you say, your voice soft and warm. He murmurs a "thank you," almost inaudible. He grabs the cup, and his fingers brush against yours—this time, for longer, as if he wanted that contact. You don't pull away, letting him touch you. Then he takes the cup away, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip.

For your part, you go to the kitchen to grab your teacup, sitting down on the lone sofa across from him, but close. You pull your legs up against you, drinking the tea slowly, in silence.

It was an awkward silence, or so you think, because neither of you spoke. Neither he nor you knew what to say about it. For instance, how did he know your address? Was he stalking you too? What did he want?

You broke the ice with a simple, very gentle question, so as not to scare him off. "Are you okay?" you manage to ask, looking at him.

He lets out a soft snort, as if even he can't believe it. "Let's just say I've had a shitty day..."

"Tell me."

He looks at you for a few brief seconds, and you exhale slowly. "They've... opened an investigation into what happened during the ambush. They noticed a... discrepancy between my official report and... the forensic report." He takes another sip of his coffee, looking away.

You hum, drinking.

"Does it have... something to do with you?" he asks suddenly.

"You could say so," you nod, giving him a false smile for a few seconds, as if you didn't like the decision they'd made about you.

"They've penalized me for it," you add.

"Oh," Dex lets out, nervously.

You nod again, in silence.

"I'm sorry, it must... be hard. Very hard." He sets the cup down on the table, pensive. "It's, it's my fault... I shouldn't have shot those two... If I hadn't done it, we wouldn't be in this mess..." he comments, rubbing his face a little, hiding his face in his hands.

"It's not your fault... You did what you had to do," you encourage him, softly. "If you hadn't shot those Albanians, who knows what would have happened. Imagine it: Nadeem, Fisk, me, or other agents would have ended up dead. You saved us," you add.

Dex looks at you again for a few seconds, blinking. "You... think so?"

You hum in response.

He sits thinking for a few seconds, and he nods this time. "Thank you..."

You take another sip of your tea, watching him.

"I-I'm sorry about before... seriously, I didn't, I didn't mean to strangle you... God, are you okay? Did I hurt you?" He asks suddenly, remembering the incident in the room. He was ashamed of his actions, and frustrated for having lost control at that moment.

You raise a hand, trying to calm him. "Hey, relax. I'm fine, it was nothing serious," you say, your voice calm. "In fact, it would be my fault; I was half-mocking you at that moment..." You shrug. "I'm sorry for talking about Julie, really. She must be a great girl to you," you add, naturally.

You aren't trying to compete like you usually do; this time, you've understood how significant Julie is to him.

He nods, and smiles a little. "Yeah... she is." He takes another sip of his coffee. "But she doesn't know I exist... I mean, yes, I watch her, but we've never interacted. And the truth is, I'm scared... that one day she'll see me," he adds.

"Scared of what?" you ask, curiously.

"Because she'll see who I really am. She wouldn't accept me, probably... And I try... I try to change, really," he stammers a little. "She's... She's a great woman. She helps people, she's... kind and very charming. And..." he stutters. "I want to become like her."

Silence floods the room for a few short seconds.

"I think Julie would be lucky to know you, honestly. And if she doesn't understand... it's her loss."

Dex shakes his head softly, giving you a sad smile. "I don't know if you'd be saying that if you knew me completely..." He averts his gaze, as if he'd be ashamed to admit it.

You raise your eyebrows for a few seconds and let out a soft laugh. "I've seen you do many things that, for some people, are questionable. And I'm still here, unflinching," you add, gesturing at yourself from top to bottom.

"I don't understand," he murmurs, looking at you.

You shrug, then take another sip from the cup. "You don't scare me. It's simple. You make me feel..." you search for the right word. "Comfortable. So to speak, yes. You make me feel comfortable." You smile at him.

"Really?"

You nod, looking at him. "Believe me, we're very similar, more than it seems."

You hear a soft laugh from him, gentle. You could see he felt comfortable, because he was relaxing and letting go. He kept drinking his coffee, and his gaze drifted to your hand, the one that had been bandaged before.

"Doesn't it hurt?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You frown for a few seconds, not understanding, until you look at your own hand. "Oh." You shake your head vigorously. "Not at all, they don't bother me anymore." You turn it so he can observe it; there were slight, short, dry cuts, both on the palm and on the back.

Dex stared at it with attention, but being on the other sofa, he had to stand up a little, narrowing his eyes. In the end, gently, he set his cup down on the table and came closer to you. Kneeling down slowly.

Your heart stops for a few seconds. What was he doing?

He opens his mouth for a few seconds, stammering. "May I...?" And he raises a hand toward your wrist. The question was careful, and he was waiting for an answer from you.

You stayed looking at him for a few seconds, and you swallow, nodding again. "Yes, of course." You brought your wrist toward him, and carefully, he takes it with one hand, pulling it closer to him.

He observes it with more determination, as if it were something precious, though in this case, he looked a little worried by the damage. His thumb went toward the back of your hand, but he stopped, watching you.

"May I...?" he asks again, looking at you.

You nod again, a little nervous. You were never going to imagine seeing him like this, honestly.

His thumb began to stroke the back of your hand with a strange tenderness, brushing his finger over the cuts you had. "You made a foolish move at that moment... You shouldn't have unbuckled your seatbelt."

"If I hadn't, I probably would've had a concussion or something, you know? I was upside down," you laugh a little.

He hums this time, his fingers still brushing over the back of your hand.

Suddenly, he leans in without warning. His lips graze the scar with an almost nonexistent softness, giving it a kiss. When he pulls away, he sees your surprised, but not angry, expression, and he panics.

"Sorry. I... I don't know why I did that. That was... that was weird. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just grabbed your hand like that. It wasn't my intention..." He stammers, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, completely embarrassed.

It takes you a few seconds to react, but when you do, you simply shake your head and smile. "It's okay. That was... nice."

"Are you sure...?" He asks, looking at you.

"Sure, really."

He nods slowly, and looks at your wrist again. Slowly, with your other hand, you grasp his jaw, making him look at you. He was a little surprised by that gesture; you could even feel his cheeks blushing, embarrassed. You slide your other hand up to the stitches on his eyebrow, carefully, looking at him.

"Now we're even," you comment, placing your hands on his cheeks, at last, able to caress them after so long.

You see him close his eyes, and let out a soft, trembling sigh. I guess he'd been needing something like this for a while, or he doesn't know how to react.

You stay in that position for a while, until finally you decide to lower your hands, resting them on your legs.

You narrow your eyes for a few seconds. "What time is it?" you ask, curiously, changing the subject.

Dex blinks, and looks around until he notices he has a watch on his own wrist. "It's eleven at night." He looks up, still kneeling.

You hum. "Are you in a hurry?"

He shakes his head. "Actually... I was... Well," he clears his throat. "I was thinking if I... could stay tonight."

"Oh," you let out.

"If you want, of course. It's your house. It's just... I don't want to be alone, at least not today," he adds quickly.

"Well," you shrug. "If you put it like that, I'll have to accept." You laugh.

"No, no, please. Are you sure you want me to stay?" he asks.

"Dex." You raise a hand, trying to calm him. "I don't mind, really. I was going to accept anyway."

He nods gratefully, getting up slowly.

"Would you like something to eat?" you ask, getting up too.

"I don't want to empty your fridge..."

"Are you calling me poor?" You pretend to be offended by that comment, to which he lets out an embarrassed laugh.

"No, no... I didn't mean that," he denies with a hand. "It's just that maybe I'd use up a lot of your food..."

You laugh softly, shaking your head as well. "How sweet... But don't be silly, really. It's not like you're going to eat my whole fridge in one night. You tell me."

He hesitates for a few seconds, until he answers. "Do you think you could make me a hamburger?" He says, looking at you.

"Sure, no problem. Make yourself at home."

That's how you ended up preparing two hamburgers for the two of you. Dex had taken off his black suit jacket, leaving it on a coat rack, keeping on the white button-down shirt.

You could hear his footsteps all over your apartment; the truth is he was restless, looking around and even coming over to watch you cook.

"Is something wrong?" you ask, without looking at him.

"No, nothing," he answers naturally, putting his hands in his pockets and pacing around again.

You serve the plates gently on the table, and you eat, talking a little. It's funny because Dex was doing exactly what he told the psychologist, but now, with you.

He told you about his day, the good and the bad, and you just listened while you bit into your hamburger. In fact, he told you about the rude "prank" he'd played on Fisk with that hamburger, and you frowned, asking the same question.

"Seriously? Who eats hamburgers with cutlery?" you say, laughing with him.

It was a rather quiet dinner, funny considering the people you both were. When you finished, you were watching television, though you were distracted talking to each other.

When the program ended, Dex rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He was exhausted; you could see it in his jaw, in his shoulders, in the way he blinked slower than normal. You glanced at the clock. Two in the morning.

"You should get some sleep," you said, turning off the television.

He nodded, but didn't move.

"The sofa is all yours," you added, pointing to the cushions. "Or..." you hesitated for a second, not quite knowing why. "...if you'd prefer something more comfortable, I have a bed. It's big. We can both fit. Without touching, I mean. You don't have to... well, you know."

Dex looked at you, his eyebrows slightly raised. He didn't look scandalized, just surprised. And maybe a little incredulous.

"I don't want to bother you..." he murmured.

"You're not bothering me." You smiled at him. "And besides, your eyes are like two slits. I don't know if you'll even make it to the sofa without tripping over the table."

He smiled, and snorted softly, trying not to laugh.

"You can sleep on one side and I'll sleep on the other. I won't do anything weird to you, I promise." You raised your hands.

He looked at you with a slightly raised eyebrow, as if he wanted to say «you're the one who stalks me», but he didn't say anything. He just got up from the sofa, blanket in hand, and followed you to the bedroom.

He walked in slowly, looking around the room as if it were the first time he'd seen a real bedroom. His fingers brushed the edge of the mattress, testing the texture, and he nodded to himself, as if the touch gave him some answer he needed. Then, without warning, he started unbuttoning his shirt.

You, meanwhile, closed the door, then turned around.

Your eyes went wide as saucers.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." You raised your hands, stopping him. "What... what are you doing?"

Dex froze with the third button half undone, looking at you with genuine confusion.

"I'm going to sleep," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I can't sleep with a shirt on. It bothers me."

"Ah."

"I swear to you. I'm not trying anything weird," he added, raising a hand, almost offended.

You shake your head. "No, no, I was just..." you stammered, running a hand through your hair, embarrassed. "I just didn't expect it. That's all. Go on, go on." You make a vague gesture with your hand.

He looked at you for a few more seconds, as if he couldn't quite understand where the problem was, and then finished unbuttoning his shirt with precise, almost mechanical movements. He folded it carefully and laid it on a nearby chair.

You turned back around, looking at the wall. You gave him his privacy, though, to be honest, you glanced sideways a couple of times, and you felt bad for intruding on his privacy.

"Done?" you asked, and he hummed in response. You turned around, watching him for a few seconds before diverting your gaze to the bed.

Silently, you both lay down. You turned off the bedside lamp, leaving the room in darkness. You could hear the bed creak a little as he settled himself, on his side, looking at the wall; you did the same, looking at the other wall.

You were realizing that you had never slept with a man, at least, not like this. Were you uncomfortable? No idea. After all, you were the one who had suggested it.

"Goodnight," you say.

"Goodnight."

Several minutes passed. Five, ten, fifteen... You were slowly falling asleep, until his voice brought you back.

"Hey."

"Mhmm...?" You open your eyes a little.

There is a brief silence, before he adds. "It's cold."

At first you frowned; there were plenty of warm blankets, and besides, it was his fault because he'd half-undressed himself for sleeping.

"Can you...?" He asks halfway, and lets out an exhale. "Can you... hold me?" His words came out clumsy, and if it weren't for the darkness, you'd see that his face was completely full of embarrassment.

You didn't answer for several seconds; you were frozen. The truth is you were also a little embarrassed by that request. But you weren't going to refuse.

"Yeah, sure," you said, and slowly you turn, positioning yourself behind his back.

You could see a bit of his straight, somewhat muscular back; you swallowed. You had never done this with anyone, honestly.

Carefully, you move closer to him, just enough to feel his body heat. Your hands lift toward him, wrapping around his waist, feeling for a brief second the brush of his abs and chest. And you interlace your fingers, a little.

Your head, in turn, rests against his back, feeling the flesh against your cheek.

You can hear him let out a trembling sigh. "Thank you..." he manages to say, in a murmur.

You smile inwardly, and finally close your eyes. His hands slowly go toward yours, without asking permission this time, as if he needed it. You feel him grasp them gently and intertwine them with his own, resting them against his chest, feeling for yourself how his heart was beating.

His eyes also closed, able to sleep more comfortably than on other days.

Surely this time he was able to sleep well, thanks to you.

Today had not been a wonderful day.

It had been better than that.