--in the midst of it all.Brian Grant sits forward, the old wooden chair creaking with the movement as he writes. It's part of his routine. Come home from work, take his meal, pen an entry in his journal
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Irene is out, enjoying the city lights. Sometimes, when she's bored, she imagines who lives where, trying to guess their lives and whether or not they're happy. What are they reading? What are they watching? Is she anywhere close to the truth?
It was a long day of work, so she feels she's earned it. The air is fresh tonight, and cool. She hums slightly as she walks, and when she comes across the man in long coat and hat, she's in too good a mood not to say something. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" she says, cheerfully.
Irene notices how still he is, and almost wonders if he was ex-military.
"I don't have a curfew, and I'm staying near the lights," she says. His comment is odd, however, and the young reporter tucks a white lock behind her ear.
"Of course." Grant turns; he has intense blue eyes that study her. "You're wise to keep to the light. There is a serial killer out, have you heard? I've been wary as well"
"Yeah, I've heard," she says. "I've been helping with reports on it. I work for the newspaper," she elaborates. Irene is wearing a fashionable grey dress, with stockings and black high heels. She has a purse with her as well. She really just looks like a normal person.
"You must be very busy. He's a prolific killer, I've heard." He glances at her hands. "Must be insane as well--he cuts off their fingers." Only one, just one. It's all that's needed.
"It gets busy every time something new happens with the case," Irene tells him. "I think he's insane, but the shrinks are all at varying opinions." If she had known she'd get into a conversation about serial killers, she would have gone down the other street. "Do you read the paper much?" she asks.
"Every day. I follow them closely. What is your name? Perhaps I've seen it there." Physically, he's just outside her comfort zone--until he takes a step forward. But he looks harmless, right?
Irene is starting to get an odd feeling from this guy. A small voice in the back of her head is yelling something.
"My name is Irene Kotva," she says, a smidge of pride when she says her name. "It'd probably only be in the smallest font there was, though. I've only managed a couple of articles - I'm mostly an editor."
"Exquisite. I think I've read it in the newspaper once or twice, yes. You must be very proud." He's looking at her as if she's an interesting lichen he's found on a rock. Fortunately, she's too well known to earn an actual note in his mental diary.
She'll probably realize he was looking at her like something under a microscope later, but right now she's too proud that somebody knows her to realize it. "Thank you," she says, and that might be a blush on her face. Yeah, it is.
It was a long day of work, so she feels she's earned it. The air is fresh tonight, and cool. She hums slightly as she walks, and when she comes across the man in long coat and hat, she's in too good a mood not to say something. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" she says, cheerfully.
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"Yes. Late for a woman to be out alone, isn't it?" His voice is soft, almost serene.
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"I don't have a curfew, and I'm staying near the lights," she says. His comment is odd, however, and the young reporter tucks a white lock behind her ear.
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Yes. Harmless. I wouldn't hurt you.
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"My name is Irene Kotva," she says, a smidge of pride when she says her name. "It'd probably only be in the smallest font there was, though. I've only managed a couple of articles - I'm mostly an editor."
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It's not until, as she's walking away, she realizes she didn't ask his name.
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