back to 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊

#𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐒𝐑𝐎𝐓  :  a  pseudoanalysis  of  the  betrayal  of  the  mind  vs  heart,  sanguinary  in  the  image  of  god,  defamation  of  trust  (  𝚑𝚘𝚠  𝚍𝚘  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕  𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍  𝚒𝚝  ?  𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚊𝚕𝚕  𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎  𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚕  𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜  )  and  finding  home  in  the  concrete  jungle.  damaged  by  the  likes  of  𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗮   (      she  +  they      ,      twenty1      ,      aest      )   

The prairie isn’t home to only lions now,      and there’s an enemy in every blade of grass.      One might say that she seems overtly at ease here,      but her pulse has been thickening     —     a newfound fear that is neither named or discussed.      It merely sits underneath her tongue,     squeezing itself into a form that loosely holds the shape of firm loyalty.       It’s not love,     she wants to believe that this false claim will save her in the end     —    but it will be her reckoning.     The end of all ends.         She feels eyes follow her,    and this time these are not stares from a man that’s been consistently on her mind,      but only the watchful gaze of the hunter in the shadows.         The observer knows when the roles have been reversed,     and her heartbeat is the only evidence that there is a sickening twist of fear inside her belly.        Her leader looks as exhausted as usual,    the darkening skin underneath his eyes acting as a beckon that she walks towards,       those bodies she slips in between in the crowd simply statues in the way.       It’s now more important than ever to bite down on that sensitive vulnerability she has developed,       that weakness she has allowed to bloom     —     the symptoms of yearning.       A blink,     expression listless and stoic as her palm is shown for the earpiece.        ‘I know how to play pretend,     руководитель.’       As if on cue,     her velvet voice is another’s     —     created silently beneath that brief half-amused smile that follows.      How genuine that comment is.     How entirely truthful.       She might as well have cracked open her chest and offered up whatever was left behind from her heart.      Not that it was hers to give anymore.      Aranya turns to the side,     fingers fitting the piece in her left eardrum.       ‘And if they don’t play civil,      what are my instructions?’

                  𝐇𝐎𝐖    𝐃𝐎    𝐘𝐎𝐔    𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍    𝐓𝐎    𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘    𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐃    ?    stand    with    a    fixated    posture,    hide    such    sorrow    behind    neatly    kept    silver    hair    and    a    five    o’clock    shadow    that    lingers.    the    tattoos    of    a    dearly    departed    youth    kept    away    underneath    suits    and    nooses    for    ties.    but    with    such    disillusionment,    the    question    lingers    on    the    tip    of    the    tongue    ⸻    how    do    you    ask    the    faithless    to    show    some    faith    ?    he    gives    a    dry    chuckle    to    aranya’s    comment,    features    pristine    as    the    smooth    surface    of    an    undisturbed    lake.    "    just    a    friendly    reminder,    ребенок.    ”    underneath,    the    heart    races.    observant    to    the    change    in    voice,    one    he’s    only    heard    in    passing    of    damaged    tapes    and    redacted    red-inked    notes.    it’s    a    fear    cassius    empathises    with,    one    that    haunts    his    aching    bones.    yet,    he    does    his    best    to    remind    not    just    himself    what    reality    they    live    in.    “    do    not    engage.    ”    he    affirmed,    hands    retreating    back    into    his    eli’s    slacks’    pockets.    “    do    your    best    to    keep    any    civilians    out    of    the    way,    but    let    the    rest    suffocate    in    their    mess.    ”  

 with:  kellan  ( @rclics )  where:  luciano’s  wake

                  𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆    𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒    𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄    𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑    quite    like    weddings    or    funerals.    for    every    celebration,    it    seems    a    tragedy    must    come    along    to    balance    the    universe    out.    for    rosalïa,    it’s    a    lifetime    full    of    both.    but    learn    to    seek    underneath    face    value,    one    of    the    very    first    things    she    remembers    from    her    childhood    [    𝚒𝚏    𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢    𝚝𝚑𝚎    𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢    𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍    𝚜𝚎𝚎    𝚑𝚎𝚛    𝚗𝚘𝚠    ].    hues    brighten    at    the    sight    of    her    husband    as    she    swiftly    hands    a    drink    to    him.    “    for    you.    capitán.    ”    she    hums,    freshly    freed    hand    instinctively    moving    to    lock    arms.    

At least he didn’t spill his drink – with his mind wandering somewhere else, it was easy to get distracted, and Yamato paid for it by lightly bumping into someone lurking behind him. “So sorry. Didn’t notice you standing here,” his eyebrows are knitted together and he takes a moment to analyze the features he was greeted with ; features that can’t possibly match the name he’s seen on the lapel – certain he’s met this face before, unsure where and when, and it becomes a horribly annoying itch he can’t get rid of. “Do I –” he stops, and with the last word spoken, he’s finally enlightened, it hits him ; dramatically, Yamato snaps his fingers and lightly hits his forehead. “The suit. The goddamn suit got me. How’s your evening… Eli?”

                   𝐀    𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅    𝐈𝐍    𝐀    𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍’𝐒    𝐃𝐄𝐍.    covered    in    and    another    beast’s    fur    to    hide    amongst    others,    keeping    your    head    down    and    eyes    fleeting        ⸻        a    sharp    mind    taking    notes,    with    a    subconscious    ready    to    conjure    nightmares    and    hold    it    against    his    autonomy.    a    walking    contradiction,    but    don’t    you    love    to    fall    into    the    role    of    someone    else    ?    ease    that    mind    and    forget    who    you    really    are.    stay    by    the    walls    as    eyes    catch    sight    of    a    concerning    figure;    flashes    of    case    files    and    a    certain    agent    popping    into    the    captain’s    mind.    an    internal    conflict    between    his    morals    and    his    own    bosses’    orders,    which    truthfully,    were    blurry    the    moment    real    eli    anderson    found    himself    locked    in    a    closet.

with:  aranya ( @alllteeth ) where:  kitchen,  early  in  the  night

                   𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋    𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑    𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒    𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐘    to    sneak    into    new    york’s    lion    den    tonight.    how    rare    to    find    the    captain    settled    into    another    man’s    suit;    glasses    sit    on    the    edge    of    a    crooked    nose    with    an    unfamiliar    name    attached    to    the    lapel.    the    night    begins    with    hues    of    plum    and    crimson    blossoming    between    knuckles,    brutality    shows    with    the    slam    of    a    janitor’s    door    and    the    thought    shoved    in    the    back    of    his    mind    [    𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎    𝚒𝚝    𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢,    𝚊𝚍𝚍    𝚒𝚝    𝚊𝚜    𝚊    𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗    𝚏𝚘𝚛    𝚊    𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍    𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔    𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜    ].    the    suit    jacket    settles    over    the    bones    like    an    unwanted    second    skin,    a    ghost    haunting    a    puppet    of    a    body.    but    the    feeling    cannot    be    the    main    focus,    swallow    it    like    warm    bile    as    he    dodges    between    chefs    and    waiters.    he    is    nothing    but    an    ordinary    man,    a    nameless    face    in    a    crowd    of    monstrous    beasts;    scarred    with    gold    chains    and    fur    of    expensive    blacks    ⸻    are    they    aware    how    you    share    the    same,    ungodly    features    ?    

autonomy    awaits    in    the    quiet    part    of    the    kitchen,    stick    to    the    tile    walls    until    his    sights    catch    the    glimpse    of    aranya    weave    through    the    bustle.    it    isn’t    ideal    where    they    meet,    but    it’s    one    of    the    few    blind    spots    in    the    building.    cassius    eli    gives    a    nod    of    acknowledgement    of    her    presence,    a    hand    pulled    out    of    his    jacket    and    reveals    an    ear    piece.    “    a    gift.    ”    he    humours    her,    “    tonight    is    just    about    watching    everyone,    cautiously.    a    simple    gatherin’    of    information    and    making    sure    they    all    play    civil.    ”

her to do list for the day consisted of a couple things: grocery shop, call her mother, call isabella espinar about setting up a meeting and remembering to give the dog her heart worm medicine. what it didn’t consist of - and honesty, never would? meeting with unit chief of the fbi for coffee. as every meeting went, giovana arrived ten minutes early. two soldiers of the italian mafia surveyed the area and had been sitting outside of the diner for hours, just to make sure things weren’t being set up and that she wasn’t showing too much faith in mr. cartwright. truth be told, she had the tendency to do that sometimes. not anymore. 

as soon as he sat down, her lips began to move. “i don’t understand it,” she had been reading over the menu that was above the diner bar. “what’s with all this extra stuff that we put in coffee now-a-days? last time i checked, a regular coffee was just a cup with some cream and sugar. my father would turn over in his grave if he saw what these coffee shops looked like now.” she could remember getting coffee with her father and her grandfather like it was yesterday: a pack of cream and a pack of sugar. that’s all you needed. did she really care though, about the coffee options being offered at the spot he had chosen? not really, but it was her own tactic to break the tension. all she knew was that this conversation was off the books, in her territory and she felt safer than she ever had been.  “i hope you didn’t run into too much traffic,” head turned to finally make eye contact with the unit chief of the fbi. “i know it’s a long trip from that station of yours.” 

                  𝐀𝐖𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍    𝐓𝐎    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐒    𝐎𝐅    𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐀    calling    in    the    morning    was    a    surprise,    one    that    was    neither    greeted    by    gratitude    or    distaste.    the    previous    late    night    of    working    at    the    office    turned    into    an    early    morning    at    work    [    𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚎    𝚝𝚘    𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍    𝚢𝚘𝚞    𝚊𝚝    𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎,    𝚍𝚘    𝚢𝚘𝚞    𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛    𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝    𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜    𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑    𝚝𝚑𝚎    𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝    ?    ]    a    pattern    that    is    yet    to    break,    he    suffices    with    a    change    of    shirt    and    tie.    mangle    disheveled    silver    strands    back    into    place    and    hide    decade    old    tiredness    with    a    pair    of    thick    rimmed    glasses.    the    trenchcoat    that    hangs    from    ragged    shoulders    does    nothing    to    remind    him    how    fucking    cold    new    york    could    be.    with    a    push    of    the    diner’s    door,    a    moment    passes,    the    melancholy    of    missouri’s    heat    fades    into    the    back    of    his    mind    at    the    sight    of    the    new    luciano    boss.  

baby    blues    linger    on    the    diner’s    menu    as    he    slides    to    the    seat    next    to    her,    skipping    past    anything    with    the    mention    of    bacon    and    redirecting    his    attention    towards    the    long    list    of    coffee    options.    a    sigh    in    agreement,    perhaps    there    was    one    thing    the    two    could    agree    on.    “    times    are    changin’,    i    still    think    coffee    is    cheap    as    three-fifty    until    the    cashier    proves    me    wrong    every    time.    ”    tenor    voice    dryly    muses,    an    eyebrow    raised    at    the    mention    of    traffic.    his    features    trained    to    appear    neutral    ⸻    calm,    collected.    yet    feel    the    way    the    heart    beats    at    a    fast    rhythm,    alessia    ringing    in    the    back    of    his    mind.    he’d    seen    candids    of    giovana    in    case    files    and    meeting    presentations,    but    sitting    across    face    to    face,    it’s    only    now    how    closely    the    two    resemble    one    another.

  SHE  WAS  AN  INVITED  GUEST  ,     yet   she   finds   herself   helping   behind   the   bar   whenever   the   other   bartenders   look   a   little   overwhelmed   and   needing   a   break  .       ❝     girl ,     go   take   a   breather .     i’ve   got   you   covered .   ❞      the   only   gallagher   child   will   gently   guide   the   other   out   of   the   bar ,     a   sigh   of   relief   falling   from   the   bartender’s   lips   before   turning   to   the   guest   that   had   walked   up   during   the   exchange .      ❝     thank   you   for   being   patient .     what   can   i   get   ‘ya ,     sweetheart ?❞

                  𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑    𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘    𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒    𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓    the    bar’s    counter,    eyes    studying    the    room.    it    was    a    night    not    of    mourning,    but    remembrance    of    what    lives    both    carlotta    and    salvatore    lead.    yet,    it    didn’t    hurt    to    understand    how    the    others    were    feeling,    with    a    dark    cloud    looming    over    the    city.    [    𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕    𝚒𝚝    𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛’𝚜    𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝    ].    a    smile    grows,    “    mija,    you    can’t    play    both    bartender    and    guest    at    the    same    time.    ”    a    motherly    scowl,    nothing    but    gentleness    from    her    words,    “    i    was    going    to    ask    for    a    non    alcoholic    old    fashion,    with    lots    of    those    cherries    ⸻    then    come    join    me    on    the    other    side    ?    i    need    someone    else’s    opinons    on    everyone’s    outfits.    ”

when: late evening where: the kalili household

It seems the city is ripe with stress in the wake of an important person’s death. The last couple of days the house has felt cold and vacant, he and Rosa like passing ships in the night. It’s the first time in a few days they have been in bed together, the television play casually. His fingers tracing patterns across her palm, twisting himself to face her more on-ward. 

“No shop talk at home, but…” A firm rule that he put into place a long time ago. All the chaos of their lives shouldn’t bleed in through these walls more than it needs to. But this feels different. It could change a lot of things, right? “We shouldn’t be worried, should we? I don’t know what the whispers are in your world, but I’m not sure if we should be bracing for something.” They could most certainly take care of themselves, but this was a line of work where nothing ever went accordingly to plan. Fish eat fish all the time. 

                  𝐇𝐎𝐖    𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐘    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃    𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒.    with    eyes    determined    to    focus    on    the    book    in    front,    and    the    tv    humming    in    the    background,    thoughts    lingered    passed    the    window    outside.    the    city    had    changed    since    the    death,    a    thick    cloud    of    uncertainty    haunting    between    skyscrapers    and    alleyways.    the    feeling    of    content    fills    rosalía’s    hum    being    next    to    kellan    once    more,    what    feels    like    a    rarity    more    and    more    over    the    last    few    days    ⸻    lost    time    she    plans    to    make    up    for.    brown    hues    glance    away    at    the    sound    of    her    husband’s    voice,    the    book    falling    to    her    lap.

Denial brings a new belief,     an easier religion to worship than the faithfulness of a killer.       She is rejecting all versions of herself,     dedicated in her loyalty to be both god and ghost    —    woman no longer,    only suffering tinged with the bright red blot of anger.        She wonders if her leader has that rage,    or if it’s been snuffed out and replaced with that bitter cynicism.      Either way,     he looks half-dead.     Eyes sunken in,    cheeks sagging,    a sickly tone to his skin that one wouldn’t notice if they hadn’t felt that benign tumour of the past as well.       She says it’s benign,    but she knows it’s growing.     It was once a peach pit,     and now it’s as large as a grave   —    for two,   maybe.      Her knife of a comment dug in,    and he rebukes it.        A low scoff of a chuckle,   although the humour seems to have been strangled from her.     ‘You don’t keep me around to be profound,     Cartwright.’      Her gaze doesn’t stray from his face,     expression remaining neutral,    if not for the slight twitch in her upper lip.      Yes,   she thinks to herself:     he has seen many dens of lions.     Perhaps wolves as well.     But had he survived?     Is he only partially here,     like her?      Is he only mist and shadows,    no longer solid enough to be bone and tissue?      Between the two of them there’s barely one person in this office.      There’s barely a soul.      Aranya’s fingers dig into the chair’s arm as if expecting it to draw blood.       ‘If you’re having doubts about my results,      then my time in the field is very much a concern for you,    isn’t it?’     A question of her own,     and she can almost taste a metallic bloom inside her mouth.       This time,    she doesn’t allow her mind to shift to the face from her past,     nor does she offer any movement.     She is statuesque here,     a small wrist moving up to tuck a loose strand of black hair behind her left ear,      the only proof that she is still a living organism.         Her posture opposes his,     she leans further back,    her spine straightening and her shoulders rolling back as though to appear tall and more in control.        ‘I’d have to remember my past in order to be influenced by it.       My history is non-existent      […]      I’m sure you read that in my neat file.       Although,    it probably sounded prettier in it.      More sterile,   hm?     This title of ‘agent’ is all I have.’

                  𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍    𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒    𝐈𝐍    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐄𝐗𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃    𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃:    do    you    feel    like    yourself    ?    the    reflection    in    broken    shards    left    on    the    bathroom    floor,    in    the    cool    amber    of    refilled    drinks,    standing    in    front    of    you    in    the    window    panes    of    the    office.    the    duality    of    a    shattered    soul        ⸻        try    to    pick    up    the    shards    in    a    righteous    light    /    but    criticise    the    vices    shown    in    between    the    cracks;    pride,    envy,    wrath.    quick    to    bear    bullet    shaped    teeth,    let    fists    be    reformed    into    likes    of    affection.    would    you    be    able    to    tell    the    difference    after    twenty    five    years;    would    she    be    capable    to    tell    the    difference    now    ?    hollow    eyes    intently    watch,    neutralise    the    grimace    behind    such    dead    eyes.    he    sees    a    silhouette    of    a    woman    the    same    way    he    resembles    something    of    a    man,    yet    consciously    aware    how’d    they    both    respond    to    knife,    instead.    each    day    is    a    question    of    whether    you’re    alive    or    dead,    a    man    with    one    foot    in    the    grave    already.    the    captain    silently    ask    the    question    to    her,    do    you    find    yourself    alive    ?    or    is    it    just    the    dead    leading    the    dead.   

time:   1945 hours  ,  juniper’s  lounge with:  open  !​

                 𝐖𝐈𝐏𝐄    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃    𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘    𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌    𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍    𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒,    hands    decorated    in    gold    rings    clashed    against    the    bar’s    surface    with    an    exasperated    sigh,    “    no-    not    olives,    the    other    one.    ”    legs    meticulously    crossed    while    an    emerald    green    blazer    hung    behind    her.    a    moment    away    from    her    real    job    to    focus    on    what    she’s    truly    passionate    about.    eyes    behind    cat-like    glasses,    rosalía    reveals    a    pout    as    the    bartender    stares    with    knitted    eyebrows.    hands    outreach    towards    the    next    seat    over,    bearing    an    apologetic    smile    as    a    greeting,    “    so    sorry    to    disturb    you,    but    just-    what    are    those    little,    sweet    fruit    things    called    ?    the    ones    you    usually    have    with    the    drink.    ”

Does he not understand?      Has he not seen the wolves for what they truly are?     Strategic,     cunning,     and silent in their approach?     This is to say that he hasn’t seen her.      He doesn’t entirely recognize that her face is not her own in the mirror and the hands that dig into bodies and search for valuable organs belong only to the government.      A restlessness curls inside her belly,    nausea following swiftly behind.       The government,     yes,    the mouth that doesn’t stop biting     —    the stomach that is never full.       It is a father,    in a way,    as it demands attention and worship,      and always leaves the suffering for those blood-bound.       Aranya resists the chains,    but they still wrap around her and choke her      —    they remind her that while she is free from Russia,   she will never be free from the gallows.     She is a pawn,   then,    meant to be controlled,    and meant to want to be controlled.     Even as the leash is tugged and it grows shorter,      even as her collar tightens.     ‘It’s been a while since you’ve been in the lions’ den,     hm?      You could be forgetting how smart they can be.’      A vaguely patronizing tone that teeters between realism and pessimism.      She is,    after all,     here for Kaz and any orders he gives her.    Obedience is a guide for her to follow when her identity is lost amid the raging waters of time.      His next question,    however,    cuts into the heart and replaces it with a still sizzling ember.    Her expression remains listless,     but her pulse is engaged in an irregular pattern.    Her mouth dries.     The fire of defensiveness is alight,     and she bristles,    chin jutting out as her jaw moves in a semicircle before replying.        ‘Do I give you reason to doubt my results?’

                  𝐒𝐄𝐄    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐖𝐀𝐘    𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏,    𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍    𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇    begin    to    show    underneath    the    lamb’s    smile.    a    sliver    of    justification    for    his    decisions.    how    the    government    wrap    their    iron    chains    between    the    bones    of    every    agent’s    anatomy    and    build    an    empire    off    people’s    disparity    for    saving    graces.    he    hated    his    bosses    then,    and    he    still    hates    them    now;    sitting    in    kaz’s    office,    were    the    aftermath    of    an    institute’s    cruelty.    an    echo    of    a    dry    chuckle    leaves    the    captain’s    lips,    index    tapping    where    a    5    o’clock    shadow    resides.    “    calling    me    an    old    schmuck,    agent    ?    how    fuckin’    profound    of    you.    my    time    in    the    field    is    not    a    concern    of    yours,    like    your    time    is    to    me,    copy    ?    ”

                  𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐘    𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒    𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌    𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓    the    car’s    steering    wheel.    kaz    was    never    a    car    person,    and    vehemently    never    will    be.    the    mind    wanders    away,    imaging    himself    at    home    [   𝚊𝚝    𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍    𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎   ]    tending    to    his    favoured    harley    davidson,    with    a    whiskey    and    radio    beside    him.    rumours    trailed    to    the    back    of    the    golden    lily,    with    most    of    the    team    out,    left    kaz    and    marcus    responsible    with    the    task.    his    agent’s    voice    taunts    over    the    comm    as    he    pulls    into    the    turn.    baby    blues    focus    on    marcus,    separating    the    bodies    from    the    shadows    with    a    low    grumble.

The talent of being present and yet being utterly far away takes prominence inside her.      She is both detached and alert,     vaguely aware of the slow beating of her pulse and the words that the chief says     —    disappointing.     A sting,    of course,    and the wound blooms once more.    Bright red,    hopelessly immune to scabbing over.     A slow blink,     her expression doesn’t once deter from attentive acknowledgement.     ‘Evolution.’      A one worded answer was the usual response to someone’s questioning of her,     but for him,    for her leader,    she’d choke out an explanation.       ‘They’re wise.     They know someone is targeting the most influential of families in the city.     They stick their neck out and any surface becomes a chopping block,    no?’       This time her smile is cold,    calculating   —   not for the man across from her,    but certainly at the thoughtful imagery her theory offers her.      This is not to say that she is malicious,     or at least not completely.     Certainly there are larger bits of her essence that have rotted and fallen away within her transformation.      But still,     there is hope,   isn’t there?    For the second time in his presence,     she distantly wonders what he sees in her.      Aranya shifts in her seat,     rolling her shoulders back and inhaling sharply,    neck muscles constricting.      ‘I will get you the answers you need.’

                  𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐃    𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆    𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓    𝐎𝐅    𝐓𝐇𝐄    𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄.    as    he    sits    across    from    aranya,    the    mind    wanders    and    counts    the    details    of    her    actions;    the    slow    blink,    cold-cut    expression,    the    signs    of    the    beginning    of    the    end.    [    𝚑𝚘𝚠    𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛,    𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝    𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝    𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐    𝚝𝚘    𝚢𝚘𝚞.    ]    agent’s    file    is    memorised    like    scripture,    faithful    with    her    loyalty    and    answer    shows    eagerness    for    results    ⸻    kaz    certainly    can’t    deny    that,    but    subconsciousness    still    worries.    “    they’re    definitely    not    stupid,    but    callin’    them    einsteins    is    a    bit    generous.    ”    he    grimaces    behind    sapped    eyes.  see    your    reflection    in    the    glass    and    sigh,    the    heavy    weight    resting    on    your    shoulders    again.    [    𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜    𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝    𝚒𝚜    𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝    ?    ]   such    confidence    in    young    eyes,    two    sets    seeing    more    than    they    ever    should,    hands    fold    in    front    of    him    as    an    eyebrow    rose.    “    can    you    ?    ”