Chapter Eleven

The week following Christmas is ridiculously busy, even discounting my night out with Emma and Sarah. Because despite how stressed out I am about having to infiltrate a gang, Mr. Falcone doesn't just let me figure it out on my own. He helps me out - or tries to. And he gives me a couple of rules and tells them to me as follows:

Rule number one: don't only allow them to approach you. Get to the people around the henchmen, if you have to.

Rule number two: nothing is sacred. Use their sisters, mothers, find one of the goons and get into his pants if you have to.

Rule number three: don't forget who you work for and why.

Rule number four: never break rule number three.

I say fuck the rules.

And not just because I don't particularly have a personal stake in the mission, but because I'm not going to whore myself out to help Falcone in his business ventures. Besides, I have super powers.

I consider asking his lieutenants why they can't do this, but stop because they're definitely not the friendly type and they definitely won't take my question well.

I spend the rest of the holiday being read-in on Falcone's Black Mask intel, which is why, when classes begin halfway through January, I'm about ready to take the glock Falcone gave me and just go shooting my way through both crime empires.

Because the intel's not just on Black Mask, it's on Falcone, and it's so grotesque - the things he does, and I mean I knew. I knew they were the mob.

Falcone himself has ordered the deaths of so many men, and kicked so many women out on the streets. And Black Mask is ten times more cruel. If he puts a hit out on a guy, it's his whole family. And they're both so despicable.

Sometimes, I forget that. Which makes it so hard now, being briefed on this, to keep a cool head about it and not murder them all.

Mom's name gets thrown in sometimes, about how she defended Falcone in this case, or that case, and how all the other lawyers were ready to give up as it was a lost cause. That case was a slam dunk for the prosecutor. But mom never gave up on it. And she won. They say how proud she'd be about what I'm doing.

Except I know they're wrong, and they really didn't know mom all that well, if they think that. She was spunky. She cared more about me than she ever did about her job.

And I don't think she'd be proud of me. At all. She wanted better for me. If she were still around, I probably wouldn't have to do this regardless. But it's my fault she's dead.

I spend my days reading up on the who's who in the mob business and where they tend to hang out - the Iceberg Lounge, whatever the fuck that is - it sounds familiar, is particularly popular.

It's Sofia Falcone that gives the best advice, though. It's unsolicited and she gives completely randomly - while I'm analyzing a reading on current politics and trying to explain in my paper for economics why Markovia's current economic slump is a result of ethically irresponsible investors like Luthor more than it's the result of internal politics. I might be a little biased in my paper.

Either way, I'm completely engrossed in it when Sofia stops by with a sheet of paper and a stack of books.

"Not that I'm complaining, because I love books, don't get me wrong. But . . . what is this for?"

"It's your way in." She says it with a smile and a flip of her hair. "You don't always need to resort to getting into their pants, like dad seems to think. Sometimes, it's the more innocent approaches that are the best - because they won't be looking for it. Don't let them know you work for Falcone - that would be suicide. Instead, become friends with this guy -" she pulls out a picture of a guy that looks like the typical bookish nerd - "and slowly, get into the business. Tell him you need a job. And then - only then - let him come up with the idea of speaking to his employer for you. And don't jump at the chance. Say no, the first time."

It's not a bad idea. And this guy doesn't look too threatening, at least from what I see in the picture.

Not that looking harmless means anything in this world.

"And how exactly do I become his . . . friend?"

Sofia smiles, "Glad you asked. His name's Eric Donahue. He's moderately high in the chain of command for Black Mask, and is a closet book lover that spends most afternoons in the Gotham Public Library. These are a list of the books he's checked out in the past month."

There's twenty titles. Mostly fiction.

Well fuck. And I thought I loved to read.

"So my job is to go to the Gotham Public Library? And read these books?"

"It's a start."

And she's not wrong. . .

She walks away leaving me to think about it and come up with my own plan of action. Because some of these titles - I wouldn't be caught dead reading this in public.

I don't start right away. And I don't do it, I think, the way Sofia expects me to.

Instead, I get an unpaid internship at the Gotham Public Library beginning about a month after Christmas - it's harder than you think trying to get someone to let you work for free, but I do it. I spend most of my shifts sitting there at the front desk doing homework, and only occasionally reading one of those books on Sofia's list - the safe ones focused more on the story than any . . . bedroom shenanigans. Sometimes I'm tasked with putting books back on the shelves.

I do meet him - Eric Donahue - when he's checking his books out.

It's so awkward, and he doesn't seem to like meeting my eyes, especially when I'm scanning the books.

"Just these books for you today?"

A blank stare, even as I smile - like, really, seeing me smile so much is a privilege, and here he is just . . . ugh.

I continue to smile obnoxiously.

"Alright, Mr. Donahue, these are due in two weeks. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Rude. He just turns and leaves.

But I'm not about to give up. This guy is going to be my in.

Every time he enters the library, and every time he leaves, I make sure to smile, or nod my head at him. When he goes to get something - usually a granola bar from quaker oats - at the vending machine I smile and tilt my head. He starts to warm up to me a bit, giving me half smiles and not saying much, but I've worked in customer service before. I will not be discouraged.

It's all very routine and boring, with me even grabbing my own granola bars most days (and billing Falcone, it's an on-the-job expense). I'm there, in the background, establishing myself in his life - even if as only a background fixture.

After about two months, in April, on a day I'm not reading one of the books on his list - it's not even the same genre, it's a historical analysis of the Cold War - with superheros, it happens. And I'm so engrossed in my book, I barely notice a shadow over my head, until a voice - his voice - breaks through.

"Oh! Sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Your book . . . what's it about?"

I half smile, and answer, "You probably wouldn't like it. It's pretty boring."

His eyebrows rise. "You seemed pretty interested."

"Well, I mean, it's history, and I like history a bit. It's for school, about the cold war and heros and . . ."

So I start rambling a bit about the book, sue me.

He chuckles, and hands me his book for me to checkout. "You go to school?"

I'm proud of myself for my ability to keep the pleasant smile on my face, even as he awkwardly leans on the counter, and seems to stumble over his words. I want to cringe, because he's trying pretty hard.

"Yeah, I'm almost done with college and I want to go into business, but at the same time I like organizing things, and think I'd just be happy keeping documents organized after I graduate."

I sigh then looking to the desk and giving another half smile.

"Do you not like working here?"

I shake my head. "Don't get me wrong! I love working here. But I'm working here for free, and . . ." I shrug. "Money is a thing necessary for life, so . . ."

He nods in sympathy.

He looks like he's about to say something, but closes his mouth, and gives me another awkward nod.

It's after he leaves that I turn back to my book and smile - progress.

It's the middle of June - school's out, thank God - when it happens. It's raining like nobody's business and they come dripping into the library without any consideration for other visitors. I expected more from Eric Donahue. But he's flanked by a bunch of other really large guys, and I really don't want to get on their bad side, so I silently grab the Caution Floor Wet sign, put it there by the door, and give the floor a cursory mop before sitting back down at my desk.

They stand by a bookshelf and talk, throwing me glances the whole time.

I overhear some of their conversation - something about how the latest shipment is being intercepted by the bat. They need to be more careful. Black Mask is getting more and more upset about the loyalty of his men, or lack thereof. Ms. Li, whoever the fuck that is, keeps saying she needs an underling. All things they really shouldn't be talking about out in the open.

I glance at the clock - which reads four o'clock and my stomach growls because crap I'm hungry. I should probably take a break and get something to eat. Except, I don't want to let them out of my sight . . . I give it another ten minutes before I stand up to get a granola bar from the vending machine and feel their eyes following me. It's only a little creepy.

I try my best to keep my head down and working on my homework - typing away at my laptop about Rhelasian tensions, read Korea, and subsequent peace talks that never seem to go anywhere. I try really hard to focus, I really do. But I'm on a mission to infiltrate a mob organization.

And so I guess I do too good a job of faking indifference, because it honestly comes as a surprise when one of them snatches my laptop right from under my fingertips, and I gasp turning to them wide eyed.

"What are you typing? You spying on us?"

Well . . . yes, but . . . thank God I'm not stupid enough to tell them.

"I was doing my homework."

The big guy - the one with my computer - eyes me suspiciously for a moment before he looks at my computer screen, all three guys leaning in close and clicking away.

I'm not panicking at all. There's no important information on my laptop. Lies, lies, lies. Mom's emails are there. My scans of the newspaper articles I dig through in my spare time is there. My attempts to hack into Wayne Enterprises - again - are there.

A glare . . . so maybe I'm freaking out a bit. He lays my laptop back down and I take it, hugging it to my chest.

"Eric here said you need money."

And wait, what? That . . . was much easier than I thought it would be.

"Don't we all?"

All three smile and it's so creepy.

"How would you like to work for our boss?"

Definitely easier than I thought . . . it's only June, after all.

"I . . . I'll have to think about it."

"Let us know," and he throws down a business card not even bothering to lay it down nicely on my desk.

I have to fight to not roll my eyes at how rude he's being. Only the fact that my heart's still racing from my laptop, oh thank God you're okay, keeps me grounded and able to nod and look appropriately scared.

Except this is exactly what I wanted. I wanted them to offer me a job, but looking scared is just another way to get them to lower their guard even more.

It's a long day, and I feel exhausted by the time I get home and unlock the door, that I just drop my purse and turn on the light in the front room.

My shoulders ache. My eyes are tired. And -

My phone is ringing somewhere in my huge purse.

Even as I dig through my purse, I'm cursing under my breath, sitting on the floor, and fumbling to get my phone to answer - it's a number I don't recognize, which really isn't all that surprising, I don't have that many contacts. I might stare at my phone a bit dumbly for a moment trying to decide if I want to answer or not.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Annie! It's me, Sofia!"

"Oh, hi."

This is awkward.

"I was wondering if you were busy tonight."

The answer's out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

"Well, I mean yes, but -"

"Awesome. I'm heading to the Iceberg Lounge, if you'd like to join me."

"Why the fuck would you want to go to the Iceberg Lounge?"

And fuck. I actually said that. To Sofia . . .

"Well, I mean - if you have a better idea, please let me know."

She sounds insulted. . . damn. That means I need to fix this.

"It's just - that's where Eric hangs out, and it would be . . ."

"Oh, yeah? How's that going?"

"It's . . . going. . . they offered me a job."

"Wow. You work fast. How'd you swing that in so little time?"

"I don't know . . ." I know, I'm just not about to tell her.

"Fine, keep your secrets. Well, I'm going to get some food, then. Will you join me? You can pick."

She's never asked me to eat with her before, so I'm pretty sure she's got ulterior motives. But - my stomach growls - I'm hungry. . . and if it's my pick . . .

I give her the name of a restaurant a good mile from my house and tell her I can be there in twenty minutes.

As I lock my apartment door - again - that night, I pull out the business card from Eric's . . . friend. Maybe I've given it enough time - a few hours enough.

It's only six o'clock now anyway.

But . . . I tuck it away in my purse again and head to the restaurant - toward food.

And if I have a quaker oats bar in my hand just in case? - well this is Gotham after all.

I make it to the quaint little diner I told Sofia about with time to spare and sit down with a cup of tea and pie trying to finish my paper on Rhelasia (that was so rudely interrupted earlier today . . . I'm not bitter - not at all).

Sofia is dressed up with a wig when I see her.

"Ugh, this thing is so itchy," she complains, and I have to smother a laugh.

It wouldn't do to laugh at her, I get the feeling she wouldn't take that very well.

"So, you got the offer?" She asks even as she fidgets, trying to find a comfortable position and smiling widely at the waitress, mouthing her order with a big smile.

"Yeah, it didn't take as long as I thought it would . . ."

She smiles slyly at me. "What did you do?"

Right. Because she doesn't know I got an unpaid internship.

"I gave myself a better excuse to be at the library."

"Oh?" She looks amused, but for some reason, I don't think my progress with my assignment is what she wants to talk about.

"Why did you want to meet?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, well daddy dearest decided I will be your contact for this assignment. And anyways, we're going to have to figure out a way for you and I to meet without drawing suspicion."

"And you thought a wig would do the trick."

She scowls at me - and it looks terrifying to see on her face.

"It was short notice."

"Okay. We could always just call or text."

She dismisses my suggestion with a wave of her hand.

"They could hack your phone."

And this time, I scoff and don't even try to hide it.

"They could follow you much easier. Would you prefer dead drops?"

Her eyebrows twitch, as if to indicate - yes. Yes she'd love to play spy with the dead drops and high tech gadgets like those old James Bond movies. I struggle not to roll my eyes in exasperation.

"You can leave a report with Mrs. Smith."

"Mrs. Janet Smith? That's not how dead drops work. And no offense, but I'd rather keep Ms. Smith out of this."

Sofia looks beyond annoyed. "Well, do you have a better idea?"

I think about it for a moment, before answering with something I don't think will work anyway. "I could send it out with my daily mail - I still pay most of my bills the old fashioned way."

Mom had done it, and I just rolled with how she did it.

And right as Sofia is about to respond - yay or nay - the waitress is back with Sofia's order and a refill on the tea and pie for me, causing the two of us to lapse into silence for the following ten minutes.

"It's not a bad idea," Sofia finally says, as she pushes her now-empty plate towards the center left of the table.

"Or I could leave a report under a rock by the center bench in Robinson Park - the one by the swing set. It could have instructions about where the next one would be."

She looks more interested at this and smiles.

"We'll start with that. And if there are any problems, we can always come up with some other way to exchange information."

She smiles again, but then frowns.

"I also wanted to warn you a little. There's some weird chatter about this guy the Red Hood - or whatever - getting in on Black Mask's territory - it's practically minuscule, really, and I'm only hearing the smallest of rumors, very recent. But, I thought you might like to know."

"Who's the Red Hood?"

"Isn't that the question of the century. The Red Hood has been around for a long time - I think he became the Joker . . ."

"This guy's the Joker?"

If there's a little panic in my voice - who can blame me? I've successfully avoided the crazy villains in Gotham.

"No, no, no, don't worry. This guy's very much not the Joker - the Joker's still in Arkham. This guy is just using his old name."

So he's a psychopath.

I say as much to Sofia, who just laughs.

"You're probably not wrong. Anyway, be careful." And she grabs her purse, heads to the waitress and hands her some cash and leaves.

I stick around for a while - because food - but eventually get up to leave, absentmindedly sneaking a glance at my phone and remembering the business card from earlier.

"Hello?"

I hold my breath for a moment as I debate my answer.

"Hello?" The voice is definitely more annoyed the second time, and I rush to respond.

"Hi, this is Annie, from the library, I'm from the library." Stupid, stupid, stupid . . . "Is - is that job offer still on the table?"

My first day "on-the-job" for Black Mask so to speak, I meet Ms. Li. She's . . . nice, I suppose, but she's way too devoted to making sure everything runs well for Black Mask. She doesn't even flinch when he orders people dead.

And Black Mask is so terrifying. Like. . . I can't even tell if that's really his face or . . . or what.

"So, this is the new recruit."

I'm not his fucking recruit. They didn't recruit me to anything.

"Yes, sir."

Sir? How does he even want to be addressed?

"Well, make sure she understands what happens here stays here."

Not fucking likely. That's literally the whole reason I'm here.

I keep my face schooled, though.

Ms. Li nods, and with the most stoic expression on her face I've ever seen, continues to check things off on her clipboard while I stand there awkwardly at her side and follow her around.

The second day is similar, only I get my own notebook and basically become Ms. Li's assistant.

And in the days that follow, I fall into a routine. Mostly I see people walking in and out - or dying, because that's just how Black Mask is. And I still see Eric Donahue often. I think he has the impression we should be together. It makes things kind of awkward, at least for me.

I also find out that Eric has the title of "lieutenant."

"Yeah, I'm a lieutenant. Very important. Anyway, there's this really interesting book I think you'd be interested in!"

I take the book and try to play it cool.

"Thanks! I'll try to read it when I have time."

Which I don't. I don't have time - ever, not with basically two jobs and school and - I have no time for this.

He leaves, but he constantly stops by my desk for small talk and to bring up the books.

I curse Sofia Falcone for having ever given me the idea that he'd be my in.

It's very redundant work and I'm basically Ms. Li's underling, but it keeps me busy and I no longer have time to meet up with Emma and Sarah. I'm Black Mask's secretary's secretary - or lackey, or whatever you want to call it.

I have access to the information I need, which is what I need for work.

My reports are not very detailed at first consisting mostly of who's who. It takes a couple weeks before I start to notice any patterns in their behavior.

By August, my reports begin to take on more substance, with notes on what shipments come in where and with what. But, school is really making it hard to keep up with a weekly schedule of reports for Sofia and Mr. Falcone.

I'm so stressed out by the time classes are about to start, what with trying to make my reports for Sofia and leaving them at the dead drops, on top of making sure all the paperwork for my last year of school is in place, my job for Black Mask, and my lack of me and friends time, that I don't notice him following me that night as I leave my apartment building - and I don't hold my manilla envelope under my jacket. I'm so stupid about it, but I've become so complacent. And I make so many mistakes that night.

And what the fuck was I thinking? I hadn't even stopped to eat my granola bar or have lunch or anything.

I leave the manilla envelope in the latest in the long string of innocent looking places I've found throughout the city and then head in another direction. I don't bother sitting down like I normally would on the bench to make it look less suspicious; I don't bother reading a newspaper for a few minutes only to set it down on the chair, my report in the folds for Sofia to find.

No. I just want to go home and sleep, so I drop the envelope and head home.

I almost make it, too.

Except then, there he is - Eric - and he's holding my report in his hands with a furious expression on his face.

"What the fuck is this?"

I stare at him, not really believing this is happening.

Because what? I haven't even spoken to him in a while, and here he is following me?

"I said what the fuck is this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I try to make my voice as confused as possible, but he doesn't seem to be buying it. Fuck.

He grabs my arm, and crap. He pulls me into an alley and gets really close to my face.

"You - bitch," he looks so betrayed, and a small part of me feels bad, because yeah, I strung him along, but seriously? He's taking this too personally. "The boss - he - you fucking bitch!"

Right, because he's the one that introduced me as a candidate as Ms. Li's assistant. He's the one they'll blame.

He pulls his fist back - and I just know he's aiming for my face, and I tense a bit, but fuck, I haven't eaten enough today. I quickly raise my arms to block, falling into the rhythm of moves I'd learned at the MMA gym years ago.

"What the fuck?" he mutters, even as I begin to play dirty and aim a kick between his legs.

This only makes him angrier and he manages to grab a fistfull of my hair - why didn't I put it up - and pulls, and I think maybe I'll just try the sonic vibrations of doom anyway, and turn except it hurts and - fuck, fuck -

Bang!

That . . . Eric's face is - it's . . . there's blood spattered all over my face and hair and - and . . . his head is - it's bloody and a mess and I can't even really make out his features at all, even as his body falls forward onto me and my ears ring from the loud noise.

I scream, barely hearing my own voice and chills running down my body as I back up. Someone drops from above - one of the roofs, cause I'm in an alley and fuck fuck fuck. This guy has a gun, and I didn't eat enough -

I take a step back, and this guy doesn't even pay me that much attention to me, taking this huge knife out, hacking away at Eric's neck before sticking it in a duffel bag.

I think I'm going to be sick.

I'm definitely going to be sick.

Except there's no food in my stomach and instead I find myself sitting with my head between my legs, breathing deeply for some semblance of stability.

"You alright?" comes the muffled question, as the red helmet finally turns to face me. I try not to focus on how thick this guy is - his muscles clearly visible through his black combat pants and leather jacket. I try not to focus on the guns currently at his sides, or the AK-47 strapped to his back - those metal death machines looking more menacing with my lack of fuel than ever before.

I nod slowly responding before I can stop myself. "I could have taken care of him myself."

What the fuck is going on in my head that I'd say that?!

"I'm sure."

He doesn't sound like he thinks I could, have but he kneels next to me and pulls my hands away from my face.

"Up you get," he says as he pulls me up.

"You're the Red Hood."

"Heard about me?"

He sounds amused, the maniac.

"You killed Eric."

"Was that his name? You knew him."

Nevermind - not amused. Suspicious. He's definitely suspicious.

"He's - he was . . . " I try to answer but he's searching Eric now, leaving me to stand on my own (not the best idea right now) and comes up with a manilla envelope - my manilla envelope.

Fuck.

I begin backing away slowly, not taking my eyes off him, even as his head tilts to the side. And then I'm running, taking a quaker oats bar out of my purse and running as fast as I can to the office.

"Annie?"

It's Ms. Li still at the office, and I blurt out, "Red Hood killed Eric."

"What?"

I start shaking and now I can't stop it as the bile rises in my throat and I rush to the office restrooms.

"Annie?"

Ms. Li's holding out a wet washcloth to me and wiping my face - and right. Eric's blood. Because he's dead. After following me to the dead drop. By Red Hood.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, even though it feels like a lie.

"Take it from the beginning."

And so I bullshit my way through an explanation, saying I was heading to one of my favorite delis for a late night snack when I ran into Eric and then . . .

"Things got a little heated and then all of a sudden . . . he's dead. He's shot in the head and . . ."

"It's okay. It's alright." She rubs my back. "I didn't know you two were together."

There's a reprimand in her voice.

"We weren't. He just - he wanted. . ."

"Was he trying anything?" Ms. Li looks upset now.

"Even if he did, he can't anymore."

Ms. Li nods and then looks up - someone's at the door, that's a shadow and as I look up I see him - the boss.

"I'll take her home," Ms. Li says, "and I'll be back in the morning."

The following few days are tense whenever I go to the office.

I can feel their eyes on me, suspicious. So I keep my purse stocked with Quaker Oats granola bars and eat large meals, making sure I'm stuffed with as much food as possible.

Just in case.

So, on the fourth day after Eric's death - he's not going to get a funeral any at the office are invited to, even though his head has been mailed to the office - I come home and I nearly shatter the bones of the guy inside my apartment.

Because Red Hood's in my apartment. What the fuck is Red Hood doing in my apartment?

And he's just sitting there, absentmindedly thumbing through the files on my kitchen table - the files about my mother's murder, the files on LexCorp, the files on Black Mask, and the file I keep for my bills.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house."

I'm not as scared as last time, because even though he still has all those guns - and what the fuck? Is that a bazooka? - I have superpowers.

"Just wanted to know what this is."

He pulls my manilla envelope out of his jacket without even looking up.

"It's none of your fucking business."

He looks up this time, and seems to be silently judging me for my language.

"I mean I could always take this to Blackie."

"And I could always make it so you could never walk or have children ever again, but that's impolite. So I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

And this guy bursts out laughing.

"You've got spunk, I'll give you that. But seriously." His laughter fades away and he waves the folder up high - damn this guy's tall. And thick. "You're a spy. That's a dangerous profession, you know?"

"You need to leave."

"What? You got a boyfriend you don't want seeing me?"

"And if I did?"

Not that I do, but he's being a bit of an ass.

And he shrugs, and I swear, there must be a smirk on his face. "Worth it."

"Fine. What do you want?"

"I already told you," and he waves the folder in my face again.

"And I already answered, it's none of your business. Next question."

"See, I think this is a report. So who do you work for?"

He completely ignores my answer - ass - and walks a little closer to me. And he's too close - he's a killer - he killed Eric (who admittedly deserved it, probably, but I can still feel his blood on my face and the shock from the violence and-) he's close enough that I can make a grab for one of the guns at his side. It's a stupid idea, but I'm running on adrenaline and all of a sudden I'm on the ground with his thighs on either side of my face - and I just push.

And send the Red Hood flying, and the pictures on the wall shaking.

Fuck.

He gets up slowly, patting his jacket to get rid of imaginary dust.

And for a second he just stares at me - I'm still on the ground trying to get up and catch my breath.

"Well, that was interesting."

The room shakes a bit more as I glare at him.

"Woah, woah, I get it. No need to bring down the whole building."

I push myself up and head to the kitchen for a granola bar, and -

"Quaker Oats? That's the food you go for?"

Ignore him, ignore him, it's not worth it. Ignore him.

"What can I do to make you go away?"

He's leaning over the counter, and I'm really starting to get pissed off at this guy.

"You could go on a date with me?" He must take one look at my face, because he quickly adds, "or you could just give me this information. I mean sure - send it to whoever you have to, but I want in on it."

"Or what?"

"How many people know about your habits 'quaker.'"

And what - quaker?

"Why the fuck did you just call me quaker?"

"Quaker Oats, earthquake . . . it's better than vibe."

I - I have nothing to say to that. Except, Quake is Marvel, and this - I can't deal with this.

"Whatever."

"What you don't like the name?"

"I'm tired and hungry. And I have work in the morning." With that, I slam my bedroom door closed and press my back to it - sinking and trying not to think of how if I didn't have any powers - with all those muscles of his and his quick reactions - I would probably be dead.

"You didn't answer my question!" he calls through the door.

And I briefly wonder which one he's talking about - the boyfriend? The date? Or how many people know I'm spying on Black Mask?

I decide it doesn't really matter, and by the time I open my bedroom door again ten minutes later, he's gone, leaving just a number taped to my fridge.