Black and Midnight Blue

Waiting outside of your boss’ office was excruciating. Janelle could be friendly enough, but her inner stone-cold-bitch shone out radiantly through that pleasant exterior on a regular basis, often melting the layer of “pleasant” entirely away. You leaned against the wall, holding a rain jacket and purse in one hand, the other hand on your hip. Your eyes drifted from her closed office door to your colleagues packing up and heading out. Some people waved, and you waved back, but you eventually resigned yourself to staring down Janelle’s door, twisting your fingers through your satin shirt.

And, above all, pushing certain details of the other night out of your mind. 

The morning after, you'd begrudgingly decided it best to call in sick to work. You’d crashed into your bed as soon as you made it back to your apartment, falling asleep in your coat, sweatpants, and everything else. Didn’t even get your socks off. And, the next morning, you got up to brush your teeth - only to see light scatterings of blue, purple, and red across your face and shoulders. You thought you’d gotten most of the blood, but you’d been so tired, it made sense that a few streaks were missed. Though it was never great to call in sick on a Monday, you needed the rest so your body would heal - both for your day job and so you'd be able to listen in on a particular meeting on Tuesday night.

Turk Barrett would have to report what went down. And, once he did, you’d get every last detail from either side. Tracking him would lead you to the next tier of the food chain, and you were determined to go up and up until you could pounce on what you wanted - Barrett was only the first step. You’d been tracking him for weeks, using whatever criminal files and classified documents you could get your hands on, any surveillance footage, intel from missions - anything. Once you’d gotten past him, you were sure it’d be a snowball to the apex.

Your blood ran cold thinking about it.

So, you spent your Monday sleeping, showering, eating, and reviewing your notes - those you’d made before your fateful encounter with Barrett and the Devil and those you’d written about the night itself.

Today was Tuesday, though, and you were back to business. As much as your after-hours responsibilities were important, your day job still mattered. Meant something to you, and it paid the bills. 

You’d been gunning for a promotion for months, even though management promoted you to your current, more leadership-oriented position only about two years ago. Still, with the amount of work, the extra hours, and everything else you’d contributed as a field agent and whenever you were on the desk - you needed this next step up. Deserved it.

Plus, you could use the money. And the extra security clearances.

If I don’t get it, I guess I could go looking for the Devil. Seemed to know his stuff.

You caught yourself as soon as that thought crossed your mind. 

Nope. Absolutely not.  

You worked alone. If one thing from your training stuck, it was that. Only desperate people ask for help. When you’re desperate, you do dumb shit - like asking for help. Drawing other people in will only add more risk, personally, professionally, and even legally, if it gets that far. Inviting connection only invites disaster.

Besides, at least if you fuck up alone, it’s not somebody else fucking you over. You only have you to answer to, only you to punish.

And you were not about to end up absolutely fucked by some crazy guy in a skintight suit and a black mask, no matter how helpful he might have been once. For all you knew, he was just as much of a problem as Barrett. He could be a fun acquaintance, a random run-in; you didn't need anything more from him.

A broken clock is still right twice a day. Doesn’t mean it’s worth buying.

Janelle’s door creaked open, and you straightened at the sound, smoothing your shirt and moving your hands behind your back.

“Selena?” Janelle hummed, her voice sick and sweet like cough syrup; it has a purpose but is generally unpleasant and not something you ever want to need.

Looks like I’ve got a damn cough.

“Janelle! Thanks so much for making the time.” You walked forward, a bright grin dancing over your face as she stepped back, holding the door for you. 

Janelle’s office was - original, to say the least. It was like it came out of 1980s daytime television. Dark blue carpeting that seriously needed a vacuum job covered the floor end to end, and the little light that would have come through the window behind her desk was drowned out by heavy gray curtains. The window was open, and a crisp breeze pushed at the fabric as if the wind knew how much this room needed some light.

“Of course,” she purred, shutting the door behind you. “Have a seat.”

Your seating options were two large blue armchairs in front of Janelle’s desk, with a small, ugly-looking coffee table between them. 

Makes no sense. The desk is right there. All you gotta do is lean forward. Just get some coasters if you care so much.

The first chair had a few faint markings on the arms from what you knew were poor attempts at putting out a cigarette. Janelle’s penchant for smoking was well known on the floor and, for some reason, put up with. Why they’d keep a walking fire hazard in this room with all this flammable furniture was beyond you, let alone why she was permitted to smoke in her office in the first place.

You took the second chair.

Janelle strode over to her side of the desk, her sky-high heels muffled by that god-awful carpeting. With a sigh, she took a seat, turning to the open file folder on her desk. You didn’t have to look too closely to know that it was yours, thick with achievements, extra efforts, and all the work you knew made you so worth this promotion.

“Now, Selena, we’re both aware this isn’t a regular performance review but an expedited meeting based on openings and your personal interest.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m keen on moving up in the Bureau and would like to be considered for a promotion to the Level One Special Agent designation.”

“I am aware,” Janelle’s voice was monotonous, slow, as she flipped through your files. You couldn’t help but pick at the edges of the armchair, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I received an excellent note of recommendation for you from one of our LOAs.”

You smiled, mentally sending him a thank-you. “Glad to hear that, ma’am.”

Janelle glanced up at you, amused, before shifting her gaze to your files. “As a Level Two Agent, you’re certainly- a candidate.”

You took a breath, the flipping pages seeming far too loud for the otherwise quiet room. “Thank- thank you. As I’m sure you know, I’ve been working incredibly hard as an LTA over the last two years, and given my various successes and all the work I’ve put in- “

“I’m just not sure it’s a fit at this time, Selena.”

Cold water poured down your spine, her words a frigid knife in your back. “I - I’m sorry?”

“I have no doubt that you would make great contributions as a Level One. It’s just a difficult transition for us to approach right now.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Janelle sighed. “I know how you must feel. Unfortunately, the Bureau can’t take on this sort of transition-“

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Like I said, Selena-“

Your blood started boiling. The chair felt too comfortable under you, and you dug your fingers into its arms. “The position is being openly advertised among staff. Not only are you looking for an internal candidate, but it’s a requirement. I’m an internal, hardworking, eager candidate with experience that you’ve signed off on personally to back me up.”

Janelle leaned back in her office chair, the only modern-looking thing in the whole room, save for her computer. She twisted her lips, narrowing her eyes at you. “I appreciate your passion, Selena.”

Your posture finally faltered, just slightly. “I just- I don’t understand, Janelle. I don’t.”

“You’ve done excellent work on your last few assignments, and we all appreciate your effort. It’s not easy doing what we - what you - do.” The lines in Janelle’s forehead deepened, the only indicator that her patience was starting to wear. “It’s important to remember your position, nonetheless.”

You clicked your tongue. “My position?”

“Mind if I smoke?” Janelle dug through her jacket pocket, producing a silver tin that had once been shiny but now had a thin layer of smudgy gray coating its exterior. You sat there for a moment before shaking your head no. Janelle pursed her lips, cracking open the tin and pulling out a cigarette. She gingerly placed it between her teeth, drawing a black lighter from her pocket.

“I know, it’s outdated, I guess,” Janelle mumbled, gesturing to the cigarette, which shifted with the movement of her lips. You remained still, aside from your thumb flicking anxiously at the edge of the chair’s arm. Janelle lit the cigarette and took a drag, letting the smoke drift out of her mouth and up towards the ceiling as she spoke. “Everyone has their vices.”

“That’s true.” You hummed.

“It is,” Janelle purred, her eyes seeming to narrow at you even further, “and I imagine you understand that more than most.”

The cool gray of Janelle’s eyes made you squirm. “Excuse me?”

“You know that no one’s without fault.” She took another puff, this time blowing the smoke in a steady stream off to the side of the office. “You look at people for the good and the bad, for their wrongs - sometimes over their rights. You see past any sugarcoating like that,” Janelle continued with a snap of her fingers. She shrugged. “It’s what makes you so good at your job.”

Your lips formed a tight line, which shifted into a tighter smile. “If I’m so good at my job, why aren’t I being considered for the other options I’ve requested?”

“Well, we can use your talents where you are, as a Level Two. Besides, there are systems in place, Selena. You know that.” Janelle leaned back in her seat. “You can’t just jump the line because you’ve gotten some days in the sun.”

“Some days?” The satin of your shirt crinkled as you leaned forward. You couldn’t possibly be losing this chance. “Jesus, I’ve been here for years, and you’re talking to me like I started last week!”

“I don’t make the rules here-“

Now that made you scoff. “Yeah, well, you know damn well you can change them.”

“Selena.” Janelle’s tone was sharp, giving you pause. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“I need to be given what I deserve.”

“What you deserve is relative to a lot of factors.” Janelle tapped her cigarette against the side of her desk. You watched the ashes float down to the floor, seeming to disappear in the fall. She rubbed her fingers against her temple, her voice lowering in quiet, angry exasperation. “I’m working overtime to get everyone what they quote-unquote ‘deserve,’ Selena. There is only so much I can do. You’re a great agent, but you’re not special.”

A knock on the door startled both of you, slicing through the tension in the room. You opened your mouth to speak but couldn’t think of what to say next.

“Come in,” Janelle called out.

The door opened behind you, footsteps on tile going mute against the carpet. You knew who it was before Janelle greeted him by name.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

“Dex!” Janelle smiled. You clenched and released your jaw a few times over, a little more painfully aware of this man’s presence than you’d like to be.

“Janelle, Selena, hi,” Dex’s lips turned up as he spoke, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” He glanced down to you - and you kept your eyes trained on Janelle’s slowly burning cigarette, wishing you could float up to the ceiling and disappear in a cloud of smoke. Or, rather, that Dex would.

“Oh, no, no - is he, Selena?” Janelle turned the focus of her new smile to you, though her eyes remained cold and distant. You pasted on a similarly false grin.

“Not at all,” you cooed, finally turning up to look at Dex. He seemed to notice something was off, and you quickly turned back to Janelle, getting out of your chair before risking any sort of further interaction with the guy. “I’d better be going, anyway.”

“You enjoy the rest of your day, Selena.” Janelle’s false cheer struck something in Dex, and he turned to look at you. You ignored him, keeping razor focus on your insufferable boss.

“I will,” you hissed through gritted, smiling teeth before spinning on your heel and stepping through the still-ajar door. You could just make out something along the lines of ‘this won’t take long, ma’am,' from Dex as you stepped into the hallway. 

Prick.

Benjamin Poindexter - or Dex, as everyone called him, for whatever reason - had been a pain in your ass since you met him. You’d met when you were both Level Threes, but you were moved up to Level Two before he was. You supervised him and even worked with him directly on a few assignments once he was promoted. He was good at his job, but he could be cocky and manipulative.

Other people trusted the man. Liked him, even. Some days you did; most days, you didn’t.

Maybe I should take your job, Janelle,  you thought to yourself.  Think we both know I’m better at seeing through people. Sugarcoated bullshit is still bullshit.

The slow click of your heels on tile echoed through the hall as you stalked towards the elevator, and you willed Dex to take much longer than he’d promised Janelle as you pressed the down button.

The door opened, and a familiar grin sent a wave of relief through you.

Well, the grin lasted until he saw the look on your face. You stepped into the elevator, managing a weak half smile. His brow furrowed.

“Rough meeting?” Ray turned to you, leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator. You focused on the door as it closed painfully slowly, only releasing your tightly-held breath once it was fully shut.

“You have no idea. Pretty much screwed for a promotion, let alone a raise.”

He sighed, hitting the button for the lobby. “She’s not giving you anything?”

“Nothing.” You let your head drop against the wall, eyes closing. “And of course, before I could even finish with her, who walks in but fucking Poindexter.”

“Okay, I’m telling you, Dex isn’t that bad.” Ray’s voice was almost teasing - but knowing how many times the two of you had been over the subject, it was basically a joke at this point. Ray Nadeem was a good man, one of the few truly good men you knew, and his light friendship with Dex was the one thing that tainted that, annoying you to no end. 

There wasn’t anything wrong with Dex, per se - you just had a bad feeling about the guy. He was perfectly nice, perfectly friendly, perfectly perfect as an employee, but it was like that’s all he was - an employee. The guy never talked about his family, friends, life outside of work, about anything other than the damn job. Maybe he was just a private guy, but your gut told you otherwise.

Besides, you’d supervised him on a few assignments and worked with him on plenty, and working with him was nothing short of weird. No other agent was as precise, calculating, and sometimes as emotionless as Dex. It helped him do well in his job, but it honestly just freaked you out.

You had nothing against the guy - but, really, you were just waiting for the day he’d give you a real reason not to like him.

You tilted your head and opened your eyes to glare at Ray. Knowing you were only semi-serious in your dislike of Dex, Ray huffed a laugh in response before shaking his head, his smile fading. “But shit, Sel, that’s ridiculous. Your track record is pristine,” he dipped his head forward on the last word, hyper-pronouncing every letter. “We need someone like you as a Level One.”

You smiled. It felt good to have someone on your side. Felt good to have a friend.

“Thanks, Ray. I know she’s serious about her job, but when have I not been serious about mine?” You breathed out, careful to not let yourself get too upset. Yeah, you could certainly use the money, but you deserved this - and it would help you in so many other ways that only you would understand. Well, you and the Devil, that is. “Thanks for putting a good word in, anyway.”

“Don’t mention it. Least I could do.” Ray smiled sadly at you, tilting his head to the side. “Just keep pushing, Sel. You’ll get there. Hell, maybe you’ll knock her out of her cushy little office one day.” He paused. “Although, come to think of it, not sure you’re gonna want to deal with all that residual cigarette smoke.”

Now that finally drew a real laugh out of you. You smiled at Ray. “My money’s on you ending up in her cushy little cigarette-infested office - if you’re willing to lose your access to clean oxygen for the job.”

He chuckled. “For the money, I might just have to take that offer eventually.”

You knew Ray’s family decently well - mostly in passing, but you’d been over for dinner a couple times. They weren’t struggling, but Ray was always worried about keeping the family afloat, always anticipating the worst. He just wanted the best for them.

“How’s Seema?”

“She’s good. Sami’s struggling a bit with math, and between her and I, it’s safe to say that she’s the math whiz, so she’s been on tutor duty for the last few weeks.” Ray’s smile warmed at the mention of his wife and son. If there was any father and husband out there who really adored his family, it was Ray Nadeem.

“Math not your thing? Sounds like you’re slacking, Nadeem.”

“Hardly. See, if Seema tackles her job plus the math homework and I tackle the security of the city, I’d say we’re golden.”

“Knowing Seema, maybe you should switch roles.” You teased, stepping towards the elevator door as it opened onto the lobby level. Ray laughed.

“Yeah, well, Seema could most definitely handle keeping the city safe,” he nodded, following you into the fairly plain, but well-kept and highly secured, lobby. “Me and math homework, though? That’s a recipe for disaster if I’ve ever heard one.”

As you and Ray continued your conversation, a sprinkling of rain began to trickle down the lobby windows. He offered you a ride home, stating it would be 'particularly shitty to have to deal with Janelle and potentially drown in the same day,' but you politely declined.

“You sure, Sel?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got to run to the store and grab something for dinner, anyway. Thanks, though.”

After a few more minutes of trying to convince you not to drench yourself for some takeout, Ray said goodbye - jokingly called you crazy - and headed home. That left you alone in the lobby, with nothing but the security guards, sparse furniture, and increasingly heavy patter of rain to keep you company. The truth was, as much as you enjoyed Ray’s company, you needed some space tonight. Needed to clear your head.

You put on your jacket and, just as you felt ready enough to take on the rain, heard the elevator door open across the lobby behind you.

Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.

The small burst of adrenaline from that awful, dreaded sound that you were sure was brought forth by that awful, dreaded person sent you into a few thoughtless, harried steps - more of a light jog - towards the door. But, as your hand hit the glass, before you could push it open-

“Selena!” Dex called out, half jogging up to you. You forced a neutral, peaceful expression and turned around to face him, pretending to be pleasantly surprised.

In your head, you were slapping him across his stupid, stupid face.

“Hey, Dex!” You smiled, your voice half a tone higher than usual.

Fuck, no. That sounded way too cheerful. Stupid.  

“Sorry I interrupted your meeting earlier,” Dex half smiled, that lopsided grin a classic staple of his. “Had to talk to her before the end of the day.”

About what? Literally, what do you have to talk about? Ever?

“Oh, all good. Hope everything’s okay.”

And I hope you walk out that door just as lightning strikes the sidewalk.

“Oh, yeah. Just had to get a few days off. Going away with my girl.”

“Oh?” You exclaimed, caught by too much surprise to hide it. “You-you’re going away with….” You trailed off, your jaw slack.

Dex. Benjamin Poindexter. A girl? He has a girl? Shut the fuck up right now.

Realizing your mouth had been wide open for what felt like hours too long to be socially acceptable, you shut it - and proceeded to have no clue what to say to the guy. “Your girl? That- that sounds - nice!”

Dex laughed, seemingly not put off by your reaction. “Yeah, my girl. I know I don’t talk about personal stuff much,” He glanced out the window before turning back to you with a smirk. “Hope you didn’t think I was one of those all-job, no-life guys.”

“Oh, of course not!” You shook your head a tad more aggressively than someone telling the truth would normally shake their head. “I just had no idea. Where are you guys going?”

“Just a little beach town. Needed a getaway.”

“Ah, well, I’m sure it’ll be lovely. You and…?”

“Julie.”

“Julie.” The name felt wrong in your mouth, like it wasn’t even a name.  Julie and Dex. Dex and Julie. Unbelievable.  “I hope you and Julie have a great time, then!”

“Thanks. Speaking of her, Tuesday night’s our pizza night, so I gotta run.” Dex turned to the door, pushing it open before turning back to you, that lopsided smile starkly bright against the cool gray of the sky outside. “Have a great night, Selena.”

“You too,” you stood there, frozen in disbelief as Dex stepped onto the sidewalk, flipping the hood of his jacket up and over his head in the pouring rain.

No lightning. Damn.

The second Dex turned down the next street, you whipped out your phone to text Ray.

YOU: julie? dex has a julie?!

RAY: yes, sel, dex has a julie

YOU: this must be a prank

RAY: not a prank. been a month. keep up man

You disliked Ray’s last message, laughing to yourself as you slid your phone back into your pocket. Not only did Dex have a Julie, but of all people, Dex had someone - Dex! - and your love life was all but a barren wasteland, full of dust and bones and a serious lack of skin.

Granted, it’s not like you had the emotional bandwidth for a relationship right now.

Let alone the safety, the security. And not to mention the free time.

And Benjamin Poindexter does? Jeez, for all I know, he has friends, and kids, and-

You shook your head in lingering disbelief, finally stepping through the doors and out onto the sidewalk. No hood on your jacket, you walked forward, ready to brave the rain - which quickly turned into an absolute downpour.

You could hear Ray laughing at you, the I-told-you-so ringing out over the relentless barrage of water splashing over pavement.

Yes. This was a particularly shitty sequence of events.

Just my luck.

To be truthful, you didn’t mind the rain. Often enjoyed it, really. But it was much harder to enjoy when you just got denied a promotion and your jacket didn’t have a hood.

You powered through the downpour and got more than a few looks standing sopping wet at the grocery store. Opting for the self-checkout, you scanned and paid for your microwave dinners and headed back into the storm.

At least the self-checkout worked.   For once.

You were more than content with that being the most tremendous success of your day and, hopefully, leaving your bad luck streak behind as you walked out of the grocery store.

Unfortunately, you walked out of the “in” door, colliding right into some blond guy in a suit.

And dropping all three of your microwave dinners onto the ground.

“Woah, there!” the blond guy exclaimed. Another man with dark hair, red glasses, and a white cane stood still beside the blond guy, his hand tucked in blond guy’s arm.

“Ugh, I’m so sorry,” you groaned, leaning down to pick up your dinners, which landed conveniently into the center of a deep, dirty puddle. Blond guy leaned down with you to help. Unusually kind.

“Don’t worry about it. Here,” he passed you one of the dinners, which was now thoroughly drenched and thoroughly filthy. “Not sure you wanna eat it anymore, though.”

You laughed, taking the dinner and standing up. “Yeah, hasn’t really been my day.”

“Tuesdays, am I right?” Blond guy chuckled. “Or is it Mondays?”

“Might as well be a Monday.”

“I hear ya.”

The blond man's smile was cheerful, almost annoyingly so to you on such an otherwise gray and unlucky day. Still, you appreciated it. The dark-haired one had a polite look on his face, just two simple upwards quirks at the corners of his mouth. Not unfriendly, but he seemed preoccupied.

“Well, uh, sorry again,” you laughed. “And thanks,” you lifted your pile of microwave dinners, taking a slow step backward into the now-dissipating rain. Blond guy looked to dark-haired guy before looking back at you.

“Wait,” Blond called after you. “I don’t mean to- let us buy you some new dinners.”

“What? I bumped into you, man. Don’t worry about it.”

Dark-haired guy smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t mind Foggy. He’s a bit of an insistent helper.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Blond guy - or Foggy - hissed lightly at his friend. He then turned his head back to you. “But seriously. Microwave mac and cheese is already gross without rainwater and mud all over it.”

You stepped back towards the two men, reaching a hand out to shake Foggy’s. “So, you’re Foggy, and you hate mac and cheese.”

“God, no! Just the microwaveable kind. It’s awful. You need the real stuff.”

“Noted,” you laughed. Turning towards the dark-haired guy, your eyes passed over him - quickly and respectfully, of course. “And you are?”

“Matt,” the man smiled, reaching out a hand. You shook it, finding yourself admiring the curve of his smile, of his jaw. He was quite a good-looking guy, no doubt about that.

“Selena,” you smiled at the two of them, dropping Matt’s hand just a moment after you probably should have. “Nice to meet you both.”

“And you, ma’am,” Foggy smiled. “Now, let’s make your Monday more of a Tuesday and get you some good food.”

“Foggy, really, I’ll be fine. Thank you, though,” you insisted. “I think this case of the Mondays can only really be solved by getting home and into my bed as soon as possible.”

Foggy flipped up his hands in mock defense with a shrug. “I'd rather get into my bed with good mac and cheese, but to each their own. Before you go, though, let me give you a little something.”

Matt’s head fell back in slight exasperation, the only indication of his laugh being the heave of his chest. “Aggressive much, Foggy?”

“Hardly. She ran into me, after all,” Foggy winked at you, holding up a business card. 

“We’ve recently opened our law office here in Hell’s Kitchen - Nelson and Murdock.” Foggy continued, grinning. “Nelson,” he repeated, pointing at himself, “and Murdock,” he pointed at Matt. “And we are very keen on securing new clientele.”

“Good to know,” you giggled. Matt was right about Foggy being insistent. “Do you guys buy food for all your clients?”

“Only the ones who crash into us,” Matt teased. The comment was incredibly tame and entirely platonic, and yet you felt a blush creep across your cheeks.

“Well, if you won’t take the good mac and cheese, at least take the card.” Foggy hummed, a layer of please-please-take-the-card hidden within his voice.

“Sure,” you stepped forward, taking the card from Foggy. Along with the name of the firm, the words 'criminal justice' on the card caught your attention. Interesting. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Matt’s head tilt ever so slightly at your movement, his brows furrowing. “Maybe I’ll send you guys some food for good measure.”

“We look forward to it, Selena!” Foggy chirped. Matt didn’t move, his focus seemingly elsewhere. You gave a small wave, slipping the card into your pocket and turning on your heel to walk back into the rain, which was now more of a light sprinkle.

The lightness of that haphazard, sweet interaction quickly faded from your mind, and you felt a weight grow on your shoulders as you entered your building, rode up in the elevator to your floor, and unlocked the door to your apartment.

One, no promotion.

Two, gross mac and cheese. You didn’t want to admit it, but that Foggy guy was very right.

Three, Julie?!

Four, just everything. All your extra-work activities, for lack of a better name. You could feel a large, painful bruise forming on your hip even now, from when you'd shoved those women down at the threat of gunfire. You pressed it gently and winced.

And, five - a guy called the literal Devil of Hell’s Kitchen potentially on your ass whenever you went out at night. Good enough guy, but that’s just how he seemed - and even good people get in the way.

No Tuesday should be allowed to feel this much like a Monday.

Luckily for you, after force-feeding yourself that mac and cheese and setting your alarm for midnight, you all but totally passed out for the evening.

It was a simple mission, really. Like a smash-and-grab, but a stalk-and-listen. 

Union Allied Construction was one of those companies that always seemed to be having work done, and their newest parking garage was no exception - if it could really be considered a parking garage. The thing had been “under construction” for so long with nothing really being done to it that it was more of a fifteen-floor concrete eyesore than a place you'd want to leave your vehicle. Fencing, some new and some rusted, surrounded the property, and it took you more than three circles of it in your car to relocate the opening you’d found some nights before.

The lack of security surprised you - but you sure weren’t complaining. 

Silently thanking your muffler, you drove through this small opening in the fence, your tires grinding softly over dirt, metal, and rocks. You pulled up onto the ramp of the garage’s first level and groaned, anticipating the agonizingly slow drive you’d have to take all the way to the top level. From the intel you’d gathered, the meeting was taking place in a construction-heavy section of the top floor; all you’d have to do was wait in your car on the next level down, with your window and your ears open.

You also thanked your cybersecurity degree and all the related work you’d gotten to complete at your job. Without your hacking skills and access to specific resources, you'd have had no other way of determining the exact location of this meeting, down to the level, side, and section of the building. 

Not that Barrett was difficult to hack. He’d chosen the cheapest and least secure service provider, and with your FBI access and experience, you quickly got into his texts, voicemails, and even previous and sometimes current phone calls. He and his associates - two brothers from the Russian mafia, whose names you still hadn’t determined - often communicated in code, and it had taken a while to translate it into something that made sense. Once you figured it out, though, you were golden. Your success at the docks the other night proved that.

Was it unauthorized and therefore technically illegal? Yes. Was it entirely necessary? Also yes.

Speaking of illegal, you laughed at how far over your head this all felt. No guards usually meant many cameras, but your blue mask was on, and you wore a black hoodie over your other clothes, the hood casting a dark shadow over your eyes.

Plus, this wasn’t even your car.

Grand theft auto hadn’t been something you'd expected to partake in, but like the hacking, it was unfortunately illegal and still very necessary. You weren’t about to pull up in your own car, let alone walk to the top, and given the alley you’d found this one in - which it hadn’t moved from for at least a week, probably more - the owner likely wasn’t missing it all that much. You were just grateful that it worked and was a dark gray instead of something like white.

The time on the dash read 12:21am as you finally reached the fourteenth level. Your driving hit a slow crawl, the car moving as close as you could get it to the very edge without tipping over and down to your doom. 

Looking out over the city from this height, you were momentarily awestruck. The lights, the stars, the churn of the Hudson River in the distance - it was pretty in the day, sure, but this? This was a masterpiece.

You silently cursed your slight - but present - fear of heights, flipped on your tape recorder, and rolled your window down.

“-not deal with lapdogs. Tell mister-“

“We don’t say his name.”

Jackpot.

The first voice you recognized immediately, even speaking English; it was the Russian-speaking man from the docks. Likely one of the brothers.

The other one, cold and commanding, could be none other than the man of the hour, the piece that connected it all. James Wesley.

“He would like to know why you’re short,” Wesley continued, “on the cargo totals.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

“There was a problem,” said the Russian man. “On the docks.”

“Barrett and our men were attacked,” another man with a similar Russian accent added.

Yeah. Hell yeah, they were.

“Some moodak in a black mask. And a woman, wearing a blue one.”

Another man laughed, his voice pretentious, scornful. “And you bought that?”

Sounded elderly, judgemental, and as hoity-toity as it gets. Had to be Leland Owlsley.

You heard some muttering and heavy footsteps before Leland spoke again.

“Okay, calm down. We’ll go with your little story.”

You could feel the festering tension, even from where you listened beneath it all. 

“Our men would not lie.”

“I said I’m on board, gentlemen!” Leland insisted. “Glad to hear there’s some new blood running around out there. Heroes and their consequences are why we have our current opportunities.”

You scoffed. Heroes. Imagine that.

“Now,” he continued, “can we review the latest numbers and-“

“Tell me more,” Wesley interrupted, “about these - masked assailants.”

You sucked in a breath.

“The two of them took Barrett and our guys out while they were loading the container.”

The voice of an older woman came next - speaking Mandarin. You hadn’t had enough experience with the language to know what she was saying, but you could translate your recording later.

Wesley laughed. “She wants to know if they stole the shipment for themselves.”

“No. They let the women go.”

A hush fell over the group before Wesley spoke up once more.

“They took out your men. How?”

“Caught them by surprise,” the first Russian-accented man explained. “First, the woman jumped Barrett, and then the man in black joined in. The two of them beat Barrett and our men. With their fists.”

“They took down all four men? With just their fists?”

“Well, the man did have two clubs, and the woman had some small knives-“

Wesley laughed again, though now it was more of a cackle. “Small knives and glorified sticks?”

As much as you despised the guy based on your research, you almost laughed at that comment. Take that, Jack.

The second Russian-accented man’s voice was a slow, grating sound. “That is what we were told.”

Wesley’s voice was the same, only colder. “Perhaps you should have been there yourself.”

“Again, I have to ask, why do we care?” Leland scoffed. “Every time people like this punch somebody through a building, our margins go up by three percent. We should be celebrating!”

Wesley had no patience for Leland’s joie de vivre. “This is different. My employer will be - displeased.” A knot formed in your stomach at the mention of his employer. “We’re being inconvenienced by some lone vigilantes, needing little more than their hands to negatively impact our operations.”

“Then your employer should tell me this to my face!”

Though you couldn’t see Wesley, you could feel his glare at the Russian men. “You said the man was dressed in black, and the woman…?”

You froze. You knew the things you’d done could come up, but you hadn’t expected to become any sort of focus of this conversation.

“Blue. Almost black, but blue.”

They all paused, and Wesley spoke once more. “We’ve heard whisperings of a man in black recently, yes, but the woman in blue - she’s been a problem for far longer.” Wesley hummed. You remained frozen, focusing on the red light that flashed from the side of your tape recorder. “Are you not familiar with her work?”

James Wesley is familiar with… with my work?

The silence of the Russian men prompted Wesley to elaborate. “She’s a - troublesome one, to say the least. Her skillset is extensive, from cyber to martial arts, as your men discovered the other night.” He chuckled. “She’s building quite the name for herself in our community, operating under a pseudonym. The Nightingale.”

Okay. Shit. Wow. This is real.

“The Nightingale?” Leland chimed in. “Why the Nightingale?”

“Perhaps if you all did your research, you would know.” Wesley’s voice was ever soft and ever sinister. “This mess is on you two. Deal with it. Quietly.”

More shaken up by Wesley’s familiarity with you than you’d like to admit, you took that as your cue to leave until one of the Russian men spoke up.

“Oh, of course. Quietly. We wouldn’t want a repeat of Union Allied, would we?” The tension skyrocketed, and you grinned, almost dancing in your seat at this wealth of information you now had on tape. “Lots of questions, even more publicity-“

“We’re handling it.” You could tell Wesley’s patience was wearing fast.

The other Russian man chimed in. “Like you keep saying you’re handling Prohaszka?”

Prohaszka. Another name from your notes. Small-time mobster moving up.

“We’re in the process of negotiating with Mr. Prohaszka-“

“Negotiating? Maybe we handle our problem same way. Sit down with these vigilantes, break bread, pour wine-”

“I think what Anatoly’s trying to say is that it would be in our best interests for Union Allied to be tidied up as expeditiously as possible,” Leland explained.

Finally, a name for the second Russian-accented man. Anatoly. 

“As I said,” Wesley nearly cooed, though that frigid edge to his voice was ever-present. “We’re handling it.”

A chilly silence fell over the group. Okay, now. Now it was really time to go.

You’d kept the car running, as the noise of the wind and the city that never sleeps was enough to keep it covered. Switching off your tape recorder, you placed it in the glove compartment, turning your wheels to pull slowly away from the edge.

And, just before you could roll up your windows, per the luck of this shitty, shitty day, your phone started to ring.

Not buzz, but ring. Funnily enough, you never intentionally had it off silent, so this was probably the first time you’d gotten a phone call on this phone that actually audibly rang. And it wasn’t one of those basic iPhone ringtones, no. Of course not.

It was the song Stay Fly by Three 6 Mafia. On full. Fucking. Blast.

I am so screwed.

After freezing in the shock of the moment, you clamored clumsily for your phone, knocking it under the seat and out of reach, where the music still rang out, loud and proud. Great.

You heard shuffling above you.

“Adding a soundtrack to these meetings, now, Wesley?” Leland huffed. Wesley said nothing, and you were sure he had already started a determined strut out of the meeting, on a mission to find this intruder, and - well, you didn’t want to think about what he’d have done to you.

You just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

The car’s wheels squealed as you hit the gas, rolling up your window with one hand and steering with the other. Your body tilted awkwardly to the side, your arm almost cramping with how fast you spun the handle on the door.

Finally, a reason to hate this stupid car. Manual windows. What is this, 2005?

You finally got the window shut and screeched across the concrete. Small puddles sprayed water from under your wheels, and you practically soared, turning sharply around corner after corner while remaining starkly aware of the fact that - other than scattered pillars - this building had no real exterior walls.

Please don’t drift, please don’t drift, please don’t drift.

As much as you absolutely did not want to, you peeked in your rear-view mirror - spotting what looked like three men on motorcycles behind you. There was enough distance for now, but you could tell they were gaining on you fast.

Guess there were guards after all. Knew it was too good to be true.

A sharp crack resounded through the car - your back windshield.

Guns. Fuck. Of course.

You didn’t need to look to know it was cracked badly, but you glanced again in your rear-view mirror, and your jaw dropped. A giant, sprawling spiderweb of deep cracks spread from the bottom of the windshield and through the entire thing, fading into hairlike lines at the top.

One more bullet, and it was done for.

Another sharp turn caught you by surprise, and you tore your eyes back to your driving, desperately spinning the steering wheel with both hands and gritting your teeth. You felt the back of the car slide out and around as you turned, drifting slightly.

No. No. No.

You pulled right up to where the floor leveled off and the sky began, feeling the back wheel on your right coast partly off the concrete to hang over the edge, still nine stories off the ground. A half grunt, half scream escaped you, and you pressed your foot as hard into the gas as it would go, pulling the car back fully onto the concrete and shooting back onto your path. Your hands and feet felt numb, and you fought to steady your breathing.

Smash.

Another bullet, this time in the window of the back door, driver’s side. You would have shivered at the proximity of the shot to your head if you weren’t so focused on driving to survive. You knew the window was a goner by the shrill sound of glass shattering behind you. Less than a foot of difference, and you would have been a goner, too.

They couldn’t be far behind you now. You furrowed your brow, kept your eyes on the road, took your right hand off the wheel to open the glove compartment - and then placed your hand right back on the wheel for another sharp turn, which you aced this time. The thought of Nascar racing passed through your mind.

Just like this, except without the risk of being shot by mobsters.

You reached back into the glove compartment, brushing the tape recorder and reaching right past it. Fingers hitting cold, hard metal, you wrapped your hand around the handle of your Glock and drew it out, the weight of the weapon unsettlingly natural in your hand.

You never liked guns - but you knew how to use them.

Three 6 Mafia hadn’t yet let up, but it was little more than an afterthought at this point - although you thought whoever was calling must have something important to discuss if they hadn’t given up already.

You breathed in and out, set your jaw, and took your other hand off the wheel.

You only had increments of a few seconds between those sharp turns where you could ready the gun. Thankfully, the magazine was loaded, but just as you pressed the slide release, another bullet shot through your back windshield, shattering it once and for all.

At that, your ringtone finally, finally ended - and started right back up again.

Who the hell-

A motorcyclist pulled up across from you, outside of the passenger window. You didn’t freeze or panic, only held your breath as you curved around the next sharp turn, left hand on the wheel, right hand holding the loaded-and-cocked Glock. Despite the turn, this motorcyclist still ended up right back where he was - this time, aiming his gun at your head. 

You ducked just in time for his bullet to shoot through the passenger window and out yours, shattering even more glass and missing your head by inches. Pulling your head up right at the next turn, you swerved, the edge of your door screeching past a pillar, damp concrete screaming new scratches into hard metal.

Yeah, they’re not gonna want their car back.

There was no more time for hesitation. You saw the motorcyclist lift his gun again, and you lifted yours, aimed it at his front wheel, and fired. The bullet shot straight through the wheel, and the motorcycle skidded, turned, and flipped, sending the guy and his bike skidding backwards across the ground. You glanced through your passenger side mirror to watch one of the other motorcyclists crash into your victim, leaving them both on the concrete in a mess of metal and limbs.

That left one more. Never letting up your speed or your turning prowess, you glanced behind you to see this final motorcyclist, driving fast and furious to catch up with you. He drew his own gun, not faltering, his full-coverage helmet making him look more like a menacing agent of death than another human being.

You took a deep breath. You were rounding the third level now. So close. You turned back to your final boss, stretching out your hand, ready for the last shot that would hopefully, finally, save you.

Unfortunately for you, he fired before you got a chance to. Shot your gun straight out of your hand and into the windshield with a bang.

“Shit!” you hissed, turning back to the wheel. No time to reach for the gun; you spun right into another turn, and it slid off the dash and onto the floor of the passenger side. “Shit, shit, shit!”

The assassin was directly behind you at that point and rammed his bike against the back of your car, taunting you. You steeled yourself, scanning your surroundings, now turning down onto the second level.

You only saw concrete pillars, unfinished openings into the night air, and the ground beneath it all. And the motorcyclist prepping to fire in your rear-view mirror.

There was no way you’d make it. No way out and no time to find one.

Your eyes widened. Unless…

Sucking in a breath, you swerved one more time, your fingers curling like metal clamps against the steering wheel. You shoved your foot against the gas pedal as hard as you could. The car shot forwards, straight ahead towards an opening between two pillars, and you found yourself praying that there wasn’t anything on the ground below that could turn this from an epic escape into an epic car crash.

The cyclist realized what you were doing and slowed, not wanting to fly off the edge with you. He kept his gun out and fired, shooting out your back tire - but that didn’t stop you. You were moving too fast already.

The ringtone stopped and started once more as you passed over the edge of the building, braced yourself with the sharpest breath you’d ever taken - and soared.

Hitting the ground with a grand slam and an undignified shriek, you couldn’t stop the momentum, crashing through a pile of wooden crates and a section of that rusted fence.

You pulled over a sidewalk onto a darkened road, only slowing slightly and closing your eyes for a split second of relief. You did it.

The streetlights cast an eerie, rusty-yellow light over the Kitchen at night. You sped through the relatively empty streets, bringing the vehicle back to the speed limit before you could get pulled over and interrogated on why four out of six of your windows were totally smashed. You got a bit further into the thick of the neighborhood and swerved into an alley that was thankfully empty, other than a few dumpsters and their surrounding overflow of trash. The back wheel all but gave out, and you barely got the car to the end of the dark, dirty alleyway before shutting the engine off for good.

Now, to shut something else off.

You cracked open the car door, carefully brushing shattered glass off your lap and the edge of your seat. It was a miracle that none of it ended up cutting you. Stepping outside, you crouched, reached your arm under your seat, and grabbed your godforsaken phone, still screaming the lyrics to Stay Fly like it was at a fucking college party.

Laying back into your seat, you took one look at the name and swore under your breath, taking off one of your gloves to begrudgingly accept the call.

“Hey, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been trying to reach you-“

“Do you know what goddamn time it is?” You interrupted her, not bothering to hide the whispered fury in your voice. She didn’t listen, continuing to speak as if you hadn’t said a thing.

“-guess you just don’t answer your phone or something-“

“It’s the middle of the night!” You shouted, exceedingly exhausted and still on an uncomfortable high of angst that you really wished would just end already. She paused.

“Well, jeez,” she blurted emphatically, the sarcasm in her voice painfully evident. “Sorry to wake you from your beauty sleep, but this is important.”

“If it’s important now, it’ll still be important in the morning.”

“Hey! I’m not doing this just so you can-“

“Jessica motherfucking Jones!” You screamed into the phone, pulling it in front of your mouth. You pictured your voice as a giant hand, reaching out of her phone to slap across her impatient face. “You can call me in the fucking morning!”

You drove your thumb into the hang-up button, picturing Jessica’s forehead in its place. Of course. Who else would relentlessly call you over and over in the middle of the night?

Yes, you’d been waiting on some information from her, but it could wait a little longer. The broken glass, the wrecked car, your narrow escape - it all faded at the edge of your focus as you lay your head back against the seat in the long-awaited silence, allowing yourself one small moment of rest before you’d have to sneak your way back home.

But you had it. You had the tape you wanted, with information that would make your life a bit easier. Though the thought of those criminals being aware of you was unsettling, you didn’t care right now.

You got what you needed. That’s what mattered.

As you stepped through rainy back alleys and darkened streets on your way home, hood and mask up, gun and tape recorder well-concealed, you wondered where the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was tonight. You hoped for his sake that he’d taken the night off and, unlike you, was already sound asleep in a safe, warm bed.

A few streets away, in the darkness and the moonlight of the night, that Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was far from asleep. Under heavy, unrelenting rain, he broke into the apartment of a certain blonde woman, fighting off an attacker of hers and securing a certain USB stick with some very important information on it. This information was important enough for him to drop it - along with the attacker, tied up and defeated - at the steps of one of New York’s most up-and-coming newspapers, the New York Bulletin.

But, through the chaos of that night, he couldn’t seem to get one thing off his mind.

That woman he'd met in the dark some nights before, doing just what he did.

‘Eve.’

You.