#withamora

“Beauty is subjective, Amora,” Matt argued, never quite able to abandon his courtroom tendencies even when a case was a long way away from his docket and wallet. “Something or someone beautiful to you means”—a lot, her voice seemed to insist, drawing him again in with that damn charisma—“something else to me.” Foggy would say differently when it came to him, however, Matt knew.

Dog days, Matt noted, were dangerous.

The heat put the world on a new volume. Hearts beat faster, breaths came quicker, and tempers flared up in the blink of an eye. Markets slowed, but the city’s people never did—appropriate, of course, considering its nickname, but a pain.

The heat turned crime up, and Matt hated it.

“Come down here and fight us like a man,” one gang member shouted, failing to hide the way his voice shook. Matt had yet to decide the right way to take down a gang of four men, two of which that were armed with guns without giving himself away too early. Lingering on a rooftop, Matt felt the need to pay closer attention—unexpectedly—to the woman that stood several feet away. “It’d be best if you left,” Matt advised, though a part of him sounded dismayed at the prospect. “It isn’t safe.”