#seventhbest

     there’s a pointed gesture to her white suit, then to that of the woman seated across from her. luci leans forward, speaking in a conspiratorial stage whisper. ‘ i love your style. ’ 

     ‘ why don’t you come visit my shop sometime? ’ she asks this between mouthfuls of steaming citrus tea, hands wrapped firm around the chipped ceramic. 

     better known: he doesn’t account for morality. he doesn’t account for empathy. he doesn’t take the idea of forgiveness into account -- but allison knows there isn’t anything to forgive. not really. when she stumbles downstairs, the notepad tucked into the waistband of her jeans, her hands are cold and her legs are shaking. ( if luther is right about anything, it’s that she shouldn’t be up and out of bed. it’s still too soon. ) the air is dank, fettered in steel. she can’t reach the chamber quickly enough. she barely spares vanya a glimpse into the horrific room before getting what grip she can against the wheel embedded into the door.