𝟐𝟑:𝟑𝟎𝐩𝐦, east of 75014 paris, 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: stood by the catacombs. back draped with a ᵗᶤᵍʰᵗ ᵇᶤᵏᵉʳ ʲᵃᶜᵏᵉᵗ of a leather material, it rests itself against a concrete wall decorated with the frozen mist from the fog that surrounds the city this late at night. you'd think from the excessive running and the need to stay unseen and succumbed within the shadows, she would adhere to what's needed for her survival, "𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋" just like bryce instructed: 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐲𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦. instead, she slips a cigarette between velvets, a slight ᵗᶤᶰᵍᵉ ᵒᶠ ʳᵒᵘᵍᵉ fading from the few sips of wine she had with her delicious room service or rather, lack of. the butt of it is lit with a metal lighter, inhaling a puff slowly to enjoy the little moments in life. the way it climbs down her throat into her lungs, starts a wildfire of hunger & disobedience. it almost makes her ᵐᵉˡᵃᶰᶜʰᵒˡᶤᶜ for a few minutes, the sudden rush of loneliness deepening the pit in her stomach where she can't help but choke, a raspy clear of her throat allowing her to prevent herself from coughing. ( 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭. i can't even cough without fearing that i'll be seen. who would've thought i'd get this vain? ) first inhale, second inhale, third inhale: combat boots find themselves kicking at the dirt.
𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕, and something deep within her is telling her she's not going to show: in lara's mind, the hastings sister has probably seen the news, read a few issues of 𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔲𝔫𝔢 𝔡𝔢 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔰 over the past day and a half and realised her 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 is now a fugitive and so, harbouring one wouldn't be the greatest ᵃᵈᵈ to her transcript. not once has it entered her mind that this could be a coup, and there could be danger of lara's location being revealed, but there is the looming doubt that this very well could be a bust: the thought almost makes her sick, so she raises her chin, flicks the cigarette, and begins her escape with an exhale. until lights blare, a vespa pulls up, and she hears the sound of a 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚑𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚖 of click-clacking heels. @hastinge.
❛❛ 𝐢 was beginning to suspect that you ʷᵉʳᵉᶰ'ᵗ going to show. funny that, seeing as i'm 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 the one who's late. ❜❜ she can't help but pull her into a deep hug, for it's the first time she's seen a ᶠʳᶤᵉᶰᵈˡʸ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ since the entire murder scandal. she pulls away finally with a sense of hesitation, like she's embarrassed that she's bared her teeth so early in their meeting, mind occupied with the possibility that spencer could be thinking she's guilty so the hug was entirely inappropriate, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌. ❛❛ sorry. what a 𝔣𝔲𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔡𝔞𝔶 i'm having, right? ❜❜
