❪ for the ever-prying niche's that she has, she's yet to master the hints and subtleties that are left like cookie crumbs when she attracts attention. it's part of the job, part of posting those stories in bold, bleeding ink to get someone's truth out there, to expose the tarnished corners of new york and who nourishes them. truthfully, she knows she's been reckless. letting herself into fisk's loft with the sole intention of seeping herself into his nerves, letting her words poison him until she could catch something, anything on camera that would get him back behind bars where he belonged.
but manipulation was the city's voice. there was nothing fair, nothing just about him being back on the streets. money and power; and hells kitchen spins madly on.
she doesn't pay too much mind to the body that's nestled beside her until she hears the familiar syllables of her name, pink-rimmed eyes glancing over and ducking slightly to make out the side profile of a man she's seen only a few times before. russo, if she remembers correctly. brow furrows together softly, a blend of blond.
his words come to her in a daze, piece together beneath the lagging-veil of one too many whiskeys, neat. he tells her not to panic. tells her not to look around, and the thumping in her chest accelerates to a heavy, present echo. lips feel split; dry, and she's left tucking a stray tress behind her ear before calmly settling her gaze back to the golden liquid left pooled at the bottom of her glass. ❫
And what are you, just another person to add to that tail?
❪ it's not as sharp as it could be, but there's a thorn of concern underlying her tone, a curiosity too dangerous to satiate but just as much to tempt to do the opposite of what he says—to look. ❫
no subject
but manipulation was the city's voice. there was nothing fair, nothing just about him being back on the streets. money and power; and hells kitchen spins madly on.
she doesn't pay too much mind to the body that's nestled beside her until she hears the familiar syllables of her name, pink-rimmed eyes glancing over and ducking slightly to make out the side profile of a man she's seen only a few times before. russo, if she remembers correctly. brow furrows together softly, a blend of blond.
his words come to her in a daze, piece together beneath the lagging-veil of one too many whiskeys, neat. he tells her not to panic. tells her not to look around, and the thumping in her chest accelerates to a heavy, present echo. lips feel split; dry, and she's left tucking a stray tress behind her ear before calmly settling her gaze back to the golden liquid left pooled at the bottom of her glass. ❫
And what are you, just another person to add to that tail?
❪ it's not as sharp as it could be, but there's a thorn of concern underlying her tone, a curiosity too dangerous to satiate but just as much to tempt to do the opposite of what he says—to look. ❫
What are you doing here?