It was two weeks after the Devil of Hell's Kitchen visited my home. After that night, I didn't come into contact with him again. Not until the night I tried to give what I had found on the Yakuza to the Bulletin. I was attacked, again. My stitches were out, and my wounds were mostly healed to scars, but trust me, I acquired some new ones.

The first one struck me from behind, knocking my cane out of my hand and flinging the folder out of my jacket. They scooped up the papers and made a dash back up the building. There were only two ninja's this time, with one on its way up the drain pipe, I was left with one. Easy.

Not easy. I forgot that they were in fact, ninja's. I only got a few good strikes in before the bastard pulled out a handful of fucking throwing stars. I dodged most of them. But not all of them. One grazed my left arm, leaving a clean, deep laceration. I clutched at my new wound. It hurt. Bad. And it was bleeding. Bad.

I had to stop this psycho before the other one got completely away with my evidence. I let go of my arm. The two of us traded blows for about twenty-five epic moments before I punched him a little too hard in the nose. She crumpled to the ground. Time to go after my papers.

I climbed up onto a car, then up onto a window ledge. I made good time sailing the building. The Yakuza with my stuff was on the opposite building roof, running. Why couldn't thieves just jog places? I took off after him.

Within five minutes of jumping from rooftop to rooftop and narrowly dodging AC units, I tackled the guy to the ground. He jumped immediately back up and sent a flying kick towards my unsuspecting head. He missed, thank God. Not so good, it hit someone else. Someone I REALLY didn't want to be there. No, it wasn't him, it was someone else. A regular old person I had never met before. The pour old guy got a face full of dirty ninja foot.

The man had just come through the roof access door to get kicked back down the stairs. I ran after him to make sure he didn't dislocate a hip or something. He fell down about eight fifteen stairs before hitting the landing. He didn't move. I kneeled over him. He was breathing, steady even breaths. The man was just unconscious. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.

"Send an ambulance, a man fell down the stairs. He's unconscious." The man on the other end of the phone asked me where I was and what my name was, but he was cut off when I ended the call. I slid the phone back into my pocket and ran back up the stairs.

Something wasn't right. I expected the man to be gone, I knew what I decided when I went to check on the old man. But he wasn't gone, he was on the ground, groaning. There was no one else, just the semi-conscious Yakuza member. And my papers! They were gone! My damn papers that I had risked my life for, twice, were gone. SHIT!

I went home. What else could I have done? My papers where gone, the Yakuza guys wouldn't follow me, and the police were on their way to my location.

My apartment is a little shit hole on forty-third and eleventh. I live on the top floor with room access, and the view sucks ass. I have the privilege of looking at my very old, and very nude neighbor across the way. Or whatever my friend said when I started living there.

When I got there, I cleaned up my arm. It wasn't as deep as I thought it was. My whiskey bottle was beginning to dry out with how much use it's had in the past few weeks. Thank god I had like four more. So I downed the contents of the first bottle. It set my nerves on a pleasant buzz, which I needed. I needed to be numb, even if I would pay for it tomorrow. I grabbed another bottle and a cup and plopped down on my couch.

As I poured myself a drink, I smelled something. Something I wasn't expecting. It was a folder. My folder. What? I reached over to my coffee table and felt the familiar stock of the paper. I stood up and picked up the precious object. But it was light. Too light. "Are you looking for these?" Asked an unpleasant voice. I heard the heartbeat. That stupid fucking heartbeat that knows too much.

"Of course I am." I answered, turning to him. He was standing in my doorway. "I'm guessing you're the one who procured my stuff from the Yakuza guy on the roof. Am I right?"

"Yes." He was being smug. I, being my anti ass self, wanted to personally escort the smug from my home in a very violent manner.

"Can I have them back, please?" He didn't answer. "With lots and lots of cherries please." I clapped my hands together.

"No." My God.

"Why not?"

"Because so far, I've helped you out of two situations with these papers being the cause." We shook them at me. Come on!

"And?"

"And, I'm tired of bailing you out of stupid situations. You got a man hurt tonight, you-"

"I got a man hurt? I don't recall kicking him down the stairs. No, from what my feeble memory can remember, it was the asshat with the sword who did that." I took a step towards his masked face. I didn't need to be lectured by the Devil about someone getting caught in the cross hairs. "You have no right telling me about getting civis hurt." I was only about a foot away from him. I could feel his breath on my face. He was six footish, so I had to angle my head almost straight up in order to 'look' him in the face.

My heart was racing. The nights activities left my adrenaline on high. But the best part, was that his heartbeat was beginning to pick up. I had struck a sensitive cord on his vigilante heart.

"I'm not giving them back." He said. Fine. You don't have to give them back, I'll just take them then. I made a quick grab for the papers. I landed a hold on a piece, but he was quick too. He yanked them out of my hand and tore it in half in the process. I yelled. I yelled so loud my ears ached from the sound, and I lunged at him. He had just ruined my only shot at exposing the Yakuza. At getting revenge for my family.

"YOU RUINED IT! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING!" I hit and scratched at him. Kicked and yelled. I let out all of my anger on him, and he just, deflected. He didn't hit back, he didn't stop me, he just deflected. And it made it worse. I yelled and punched myself into exhaustion. I fell to my knees, sobbing. Everything was ruined.

I panted as tears raced down my face. My heat beat a thousand beats a minute from my exertion. And he just stood there, watching me, barely breathing. "That was my last hope." I sobbed. He kneeled down next to me.

"I know." He sighed. "I'm sorry." I heard his footsteps retreat from my apartment. I heard his guilty heartbeat retreat up the building and dash away from the scene of its murder. Because that's what this was. A murder. A murder of a girl who just wanted peace of mind. He wasn't going to get away with that.

I'm not mad at him, I'm just hurt. Hurt that he took things into his own hands. I don't want revenge on him, I don't want to unmask the man who stole my drive. None of that. But I wasn't just going to give up either. I'm going to find what I need, even if he doesn't want me to.