#claircouteau

"So how was prison?"

Violet Winters was never a superstitious person, definitely not; her favourite pastime was picking the cracks upon the ground to step on as an infant, so was walking under ladders and camping outside with her little brother on Friday the 13th. Regardless, she still had a withheld enmity for Tuesdays in general, despite being a non-believer of irrationality involving the universe and shear devil's luck provided by encountering a certain happenstance. 

She just genuinely resented that hell-damned day; it’s never a day off work, never a 'hump' day and never part of an extended weekend, unless that Monday-night party left you incapacitated--and, coincidentally, it's the same day when she was so gracefully abducted by a bunch of members from some sort of hate-club (it was so hard to distinguish between her fans and her foes nowadays); each inch of her carapace tinted by instruments of affliction owned by vindictive shadows in mourning. The fact that they had ruined her favourite shirt as well, leaving her slip into some worn-out red shirt she found in a farmhouse a couple of miles ago, wasn't necessarily helping the situation at all. The fact that she still had her leather jacket, however, was merely the only reason as to why she wasn't on the verge of mass murder.

Nevertheless, there she was, chocolate curls an anarchy of its own, standing somewhere with surroundings dull and unfamiliar, hitchhiking. The female fatale street racer, the proud owner of countless of divine cars, was resorting to that; oh, the smell of brutal irony.

It was rare that Cecelia dealt with slipups. She was the unseen puppeteer to the whole organisation. She was small and dainty and not at all frightening, the men she hired to deal with those who stepped out of line seemed a much better determinant. Until Miss Holmes open her mouth. She could be cruel and terrifying and she didn't even need to touch you. She seemed to find your weakness as soon as you stepped in the room and she would turn it against you without a moment thought. 

She had called him in because of the nature of the slipup. In her eyes, personal lives and the work of her employees were not to cross. She was sending a message by inviting him down to her office, an open plan penthouse in Manhattan. She would make him sit outside and quake in his boots a good twenty minutes before calling him in.

she could be ben’s boss pft