justAhumanbeing

25/INTJ/Pansexual

[blindshotblue]

a human weapon

[lestatdelioncourtney]

[scribeherself]

if you're sitting on a fanfic idea because you think it's "too weird" or "too niche" I need you to understand something: the internet is VAST and FULL of people with your exact brand of weird. that crackship that makes sense only to you? there are at least 50 people who will read it and go "oh my god FINALLY." but even if there were ZERO? you still deserve to write the thing that makes your brain light up.

[bebx]

[waywardsou2]

Some idiot: "Why are you reading your own fic, that's shallow and stupid"

All fanfic writers and writers everywhere: "Who the fuck do you think I wrote it for?!"

[013282]

My Strange Addiction

Pairing: Benjamin Leonard Poindexter x Original female character/ Mallory Murdock

Summary:

Matt Murdock has a younger sister he never knew existed—she was sent away as a child after their family fell apart and raised by a wealthy aunt.

After a troubled youth spent moving through therapists, psychiatrists, and carefully rebuilt versions of herself, she grows up to become an FBI Intelligence Analyst in the Organized Crime Task Force. When she’s transferred to New York, the past starts to pull back.

She meets Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter months before everything begins to spiral into something far more dangerous. What starts as an unlikely friendship slowly turns into something harder to define, shaped by the unsettling similarities between them and the ease with which they seem to understand each other’s darker edges.

When rumors surface that her brother may be dead, the unanswered questions she has spent years ignoring become impossible to dismiss. Her search for him begins to blur the lines between curiosity, regret, and obsession.

Warnings: smut, graphic depictions of violence, murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, original female character is morally grey, mentions of gore, toxic dynamics, jealousy, privacy violations, emotional dependency, psychological trauma, emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn , canon divergence, suicidal thoughts, swearing, torture, kidnapping ( I'll add more depending on the chapter.

A/N : The first chapter will be an introduction of my original character. There will be no mentions of Dex. This is the first time I write and post fanfiction for the Daredevil/ Dex fandom. The main title is the same one as the song from Billie Eilish. English is not my primary language, be mindful of that.

Chapter 1

The cemetery where my father rests sits on the edge of NYC, quiet in a way that feels almost unnatural because it is near crowded roads and constant noise. I stand in front of the grave with hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat, staring at the name carved into the stone.

I’m not entirely sure why I keep coming back. It takes almost 6 hours to drive from Montclair,Virgina to reach the suburbs of NYC.

I started coming here when I was 10, three years after I learned about my father’s death, and over time the visits became less frequent. There isn’t much to say once I arrive. The dead are, as I’ve learned, terrible conversationalists.

For several moments I simply look at the headstone and let the silence settle around. Someone left flowers for him recently. Not fresh enough to be placed this morning, but not old enough to have started wilting either.

“Someone still wants to pay their respect,” I say out loud. “Surely your dear son did this.”

The words are bitter and a sigh leaves me as I squat.

Jack Murdock.

Date of birth - 3 March 1955

Date of death - 12 November 1994

It is difficult to miss someone that gave you up after barely 3 months of living. Most of what I know of him comes from the stories aunt Georgia told me, newspaper clippings I found as a teenager, fragments of information I pieced together when curiosity got the best of me.

I know the outline of his life: Great boxer, but a very stubborn man who tried and failed to keep his family together.

For a long time, I was convinced that there’s only hate in my heart stored for him because of his decision to give me up. But the older I get, the less certain I am about it.

“You know, people always expect me to be angry when they hear how my childhood was, and I definitely was for a while. I still am sometimes.”

I understand half of why he chose to do that, even if I dislike the result. His relationship with my mother was already falling apart long before she completely abandoned him and her two children. His sister Georgia offered help—wealth, stability, a home that does not fall apart when it rains, opportunities that don’t come with strings tied directly to survival. But he didn’t want to depend entirely on someone else, he wanted to prove he can manage it all alone.

So he kept Matt and sent me away. Not because he loved one of us more. Because he genuinely believed he made the best decision available and that he could raise a boy better than a girl.

The understanding never removes the hurt.

My gaze drifts past the rows of headstones toward the skyline beyond the cemetery fence. Somewhere out there, New York exists beyond the horizon, loud and crowded and completely indifferent to me. Matt is there too.

I have been thinking about him more often lately, which annoys me more than I like to admit.

I know basic facts about him. I know he is a lawyer, how he lost his sight as a child. I know he built a reputation for himself that people talk about. Everything else is guesswork.

Sometimes I think we would get along surprisingly well. Other times I think we would drive each other insane within an hour. The logical answer is that we are probably nothing alike.

Still, I can’t stop wondering:

Would he be stubborn in the same way?

Would he hold grudges the way I do?

Would he recognize anything of himself in me?

The questions linger longer than they should, circling in my mind until I almost miss the vibration of my phone.

I frown when I see my supervisor’s name on the screen.

“Agent Murdock speaking.”

“Good morning agent, glad I caught you,” he says, and there is something in his tone that immediately makes me feel unsettled.

I shift my weight, one hand still tucked into the coat pocket, my gaze fixed on Jack Murdock’s name as if it might somehow help me interpret what I’m hearing.

“You are calling me on a Saturday,” I say. “Either something is on fire, or you are about to ruin my weekend.”

A faint pause follows, the kind people use when they are deciding how honest they want to be.

“I want to talk about a career opportunity,” he says finally. “How do you feel about New York?”

“I don’t really get a choice in how I feel about it, do I?”

There is a quiet breath on the other end, almost amused.

“You’ve been selected for reassignment.”

“Selected by whom?”

“The New York Field Office,” he says. “Organized Crime Task Force.”

“When am I supposed to leave?”

“In two days.”

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“You’re relocating me 260 miles away from home in forty-eight hours.”

“It’s already been approved. They need additional personnel and you are the best from our unit.”

That is the part that doesn’t sit right. Already approved.Not pending.

I glance down at the ground for a second, letting the weight of that settle properly. Something about it feels suspicious.

There isn’t really anything else to say that doesn’t sound like refusal, and refusal is not currently an option.

“Send me the details.”

“In a few moments,” he replies, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Congratulations, agent Murdock.”

The call ends and I sit still for a moment longer than necessary.

I turn my head slowly back toward the grave.

“Wish me luck, father.”

No response comes, which feels appropriate.

The drive back feels longer than usual. I don’t rush it, but I also don’t fully register the passing landscapes. The phone rests in the passenger seat beside, silent now, but not forgotten.

New York.

I’m not anxious. If anything, I feel something closer to curiosity, though it’s wrapped in a layer of caution I don’t bother to peel away.

Eventually, I call Georgia and she answers on the second ring.

“I assume you didn’t call to ask about my emotional wellbeing,” she says.

“I’m being transferred in two days.”

“Where?” she asks.

“New York.”

Another pause follows.

I can practically hear her setting down whatever she is holding and giving the conversation her full attention.

“That's rather sudden. What is the official explanation?”

“Organized Crime Task Force needs additional personnel.”

“And you believe that?”

A smile tugs briefly at my lips.

“No.”

“Good.”

I stare at the road ahead of me.

The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, turning the landscape gold around the edges.

“I think somebody requested me specifically.”

Georgia is quiet for a moment.

“Do you have any idea who?”

“No. But I intend to find out.”

The amusement disappears from her voice.

“Are you on the way home?”

“Yes, I’ll arrive in the evening.”

“Be careful on the road.”

Then:

“Will you finally meet up with him?”

Matt.

My grip tightens around the steering wheel.

“I don't know.”

“You've been saying that for twenty years, Mallory.”

I don't answer back, because she's right. When I was younger, avoiding him felt easy. Necessary, even.

“We’ll talk more later,” Georgia says before I can formulate an answer.

Then she hangs up.

By the time I pull into the driveway, darkness has settled over Montclair. The house I’ve grown in looks larger in the evening light. Elegant and ridiculously expensive.

The front door opens before I reach the handle.

Georgia stands in the threshold with her arms folded.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

“Traffic.”

She rolls her eyes and steps aside.The familiar scent of expensive candles immediately greets me.

Neither of us speaks immediately. I sink into the couch of the living room while she settles into the chair across from me. Her gaze studies me carefully.

“You're nervous,” she says eventually.

“No, I'm not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I am not.”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“Mallory.”

“Fine,” I say. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s good.”

I blink.

“Why?”

Georgia reaches for her glass.

“If you told me you weren't worried about moving to New York, I'd assume somebody replaced you with a considerably less intelligent woman.”

The tension eases slightly and she leans forward.

“You've done very well these last seven years.”

I don't say anything.

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I do.

She’s talking about the fixations I had for stealing and stalking.The impulses that used to feel impossible to ignore.

They didn't disappear though, I simply learned how to live around them.

“How long has it been?” Georgia asks.

“Since what?”

“Since you stole something.”

I try to think about it and the day when I stole an Iron Man toy from Walmart, to give it to a boy from our neighbour, pops up in my head.

“Six years. Why do you bring this up now?”

“Because I want to say that I'm proud of you.”

The words catch me completely off guard. Georgia rarely says things like that.

“You should be proud of yourself too,” she continues.

I look away. Compliments have always made me uncomfortable.

“You worked very hard to become the person you are now.”

“I'm still the same person.”

The room falls silent. Outside, wind brushes against the windows.

Georgia watches me for a moment.

“New York is going to be difficult.”

“I know that, aunt.”

“You'll be surrounded by people full of secrets.”

“I work for the FBI, nothing new for me.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

I smile faintly and Georgia sighs.

“Mallory, the biggest problem was that once something interested you, you couldn't leave it alone until it became a fixation that didn’t have healthy boundaries.”

The observation lands a little too hard.

“I hope you can manage to control those urges, just like you did these past 6 years.”

She studies me for another moment.

“And one more thing.”

I already know I'm not going to like this.

“What?”

“If you decide to meet your brother...”

My shoulders tense immediately.

“...don't spend weeks stalking him before your first meeting.”

“I wasn't planning to.”

“Mallory.”

“I wasn't.”

“You're lying.”

“Maybe.”

Georgia pinches the bridge of her nose and she reaches for the glass with red wine that sits on the table while I stare at the fireplace, watching the flames shift behind the glass panel. The conversation has exhausted most of the heavier subjects for now, leaving only practical matters behind.

Which is why I finally say it.

"I need a favor."

"That statement always costs me money."

She takes a sip of the wine before setting the glass down.

"How much?"

I shift slightly in my seat.

"New York is expensive."

"It certainly is."

"I have savings, but I would feel better if I had a larger safety net."

Georgia studies me carefully for a moment.

"For emergencies."

Her expression softens.

"I don't mind helping you, Mallory. When your father brought you to me, he asked me to look after you as best as I could."

Something tightens unexpectedly in my chest.

"He knew he couldn't give you what you needed."

I look away. The mention of Jack has a way of complicating simple conversations.

Georgia continues anyway.

"Despite your occasional talent for causing me severe stress, I took that responsibility seriously."

A laugh escapes me.

"Occasional?"

"Don't interrupt."

I raise both hands in surrender.

She reaches for her tablet sitting on the side table.

"Give me a number."

“10 000 dollars.”

Her eyebrows rise.

"I hope you won’t be caught in many emergencies.”

A few moments later my phone vibrates. I pull it out and stare at the notification. The number displayed on the screen is significantly larger than the one I requested.

I look up.

"That's not what I asked for. It's almost double."

"I know."

I stare at her. She stares right back.

"Thank you for helping me."

The words come out quieter than I intend.

"You're welcome."

Then, because she apparently cannot allow sincerity to survive for longer than ten seconds, she points a finger at me.

"If you use that money to illegally obtain information on your brother or anyone else, I will never help you again."

I laugh and for the first time since receiving the transfer call this morning, some of the tension leaves my shoulders.

Our conversation ends a little after midnight. By then, practical matters take over my email.

Flight details sent by my supervisor.Housing.Paperwork.The thousand small things that accompany major life decisions.

When I finally go upstairs, exhaustion settles heavily across my shoulders.

My room looks exactly as I left it. Most people expect chaos when they hear stories about my childhood. They expect clutter, disorder. Something that reflects the impulsive decisions I spent years trying to outgrow.

Instead, everything has a place. The bed is neatly made. The bookshelves are organized. Not alphabetically, that would be excessive.

A desk sits beneath the window, free of unnecessary clutter except for a lamp, a few notebooks, and a collection of pens who are all victims of my urge to bite their lids.

The walls tell a different story. Photographs cover large sections of them, some are family pictures with Georgia. Some are photographs from places I visited. Others are random moments that caught my attention. Between them hang posters collected throughout the years with movies, celebrities and nature.

The most interesting thing is a section of my closet that has a false panel built into the back wall. Georgia doesn't know about it. At least I don't think she does.

Behind that panel sits a collection I stopped adding to six years ago.

The objects are arranged carefully inside several shallow storage boxes lined with dark fabric. Nothing is particularly large. A silver watch. A fountain pen with someone's initials engraved into the side. A bracelet. Expensive cufflinks. A small antique compass. A handful of items that seem insignificant on their own.

Together, they tell a story.

Every single one belongs to someone I disliked. Because they were cruel, arrogant, or because they simply annoyed me enough that taking something from them felt satisfying.

I never stole because I needed anything. Georgia provided more money than I knew what to do with.

The thrill came from something else entirely. It was a challenge. The fact that I can take something without being noticed.

Those objects are evidence of who I used to be. Evidence that all the progress people praise does not erase the person underneath it. So I keep them hidden. Out of sight. A private museum.

Most days I forget it's even there.

What gets my attention now is the suitcases that are waiting near the closet. I stare at them for a moment, then I begin packing.

Clothes first, documents second. Everything else after that.

As the hours pass, cardboard boxes gradually fill the room.By the time I finish, most of my life has been reduced to neat piles arranged across the floor.

I stand in the middle of the room and look around.

In thirty seven hours, New York will be my new home and somewhere out there, my brother lives his life completely unaware that his sister is finally coming to change his life.

Taglist I guess?: @the-ghost-bird @crazydexling

[petaltexturedskies]

I hope you find glimmers of joy in July: a beautiful sunset that takes your breath away, kind words from a stranger, moments that remind you to slow down, soft rain after a sunny day, connections that make you feel seen and known, little nods from the universe telling you you're on the right path, hope for all that's waiting ahead for you.

[013282]

🎥 Movies I've watched 📽

There will be a mix of every category. I did spent a lot of time watching movies when I was little. This list will grow over time and it's n

I have discovered this app(Hypelist) a few days ago, because sadly another app that I used for a few years is going to get shut down( TV Time).

Hypelist is soo nice for people who love to make lists(you can do them with whatever you like, even fanfictions). And I finished doing a list with all the movies I've watched.

If you don't know what to watch anymore, click on the link and you'll definitely find something.

Let me know what you think about it!

[scarlet48]

[aenslem]

#same

[writingdose]

[013282]

🎥 Movies I've watched 📽

There will be a mix of every category. I did spent a lot of time watching movies when I was little. This list will grow over time and it's n

I have discovered this app(Hypelist) a few days ago, because sadly another app that I used for a few years is going to get shut down( TV Time).

Hypelist is soo nice for people who love to make lists(you can do them with whatever you like, even fanfictions). And I finished doing a list with all the movies I've watched.

If you don't know what to watch anymore, click on the link and you'll definitely find something.

Let me know what you think about it!

[writingdose]

to be clear, I believe younger artists and minors can write good fics (not to say “fanfic must always be good” either because it is a hobby and I still believe that as long as it’s done with love and the artist’s joy, it is good) and I believe it’s good when younger artists and minors start making art at young ages.

that said, a lot of fanfics out there that you read and love are done by adults with kids, jobs and responsibilities. adults who have years, decades of practice under their belts. adults who don’t let life and responsibilities take away their joy in creating.

someone’s love and passion don’t suddenly go away the second they reach a certain age. so if anything, I feel sorry for people who say “adults shouldn’t write fanfics or make fan art” because what these people really say is that they expect themselves to stop having fun and finding comfort in things that bring them joy and comfort the second they reach a certain age. it’s sad that they put an expiration date on their own fun and source of comfort.

[013282]

🎥 Movies I've watched 📽

There will be a mix of every category. I did spent a lot of time watching movies when I was little. This list will grow over time and it's n

I have discovered this app(Hypelist) a few days ago, because sadly another app that I used for a few years is going to get shut down( TV Time).

Hypelist is soo nice for people who love to make lists(you can do them with whatever you like, even fanfictions). And I finished doing a list with all the movies I've watched.

If you don't know what to watch anymore, click on the link and you'll definitely find something.

Let me know what you think about it!

[bevsi]

I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with relating to characters, “they’re literally me” etc but if that’s the only way you engage with stories you’re kinda missing the whole point of Characters being vehicles through which we can see perspectives outside of our own. and also you’re going to get upset when the Character acts in a way that is not Personally Relatable to You

[wdarlingyap]

"But I don't like the ending/the character/the plot point. I would have done it differently."

Yes. Good. Go get a pen. This is where it begins.

[013282]

My Strange Addiction

Pairing: Benjamin Leonard Poindexter x Original female character/ Mallory Murdock

Summary:

Matt Murdock has a younger sister he never knew existed—she was sent away as a child after their family fell apart and raised by a wealthy aunt.

After a troubled youth spent moving through therapists, psychiatrists, and carefully rebuilt versions of herself, she grows up to become an FBI Intelligence Analyst in the Organized Crime Task Force. When she’s transferred to New York, the past starts to pull back.

She meets Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter months before everything begins to spiral into something far more dangerous. What starts as an unlikely friendship slowly turns into something harder to define, shaped by the unsettling similarities between them and the ease with which they seem to understand each other’s darker edges.

When rumors surface that her brother may be dead, the unanswered questions she has spent years ignoring become impossible to dismiss. Her search for him begins to blur the lines between curiosity, regret, and obsession.

Warnings: smut, graphic depictions of violence, murder, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, original female character is morally grey, mentions of gore, toxic dynamics, jealousy, privacy violations, emotional dependency, psychological trauma, emotional hurt/comfort, slow burn , canon divergence, suicidal thoughts, swearing, torture, kidnapping ( I'll add more depending on the chapter.

A/N : The first chapter will be an introduction of my original character. There will be no mentions of Dex. This is the first time I write and post fanfiction for the Daredevil/ Dex fandom. The main title is the same one as the song from Billie Eilish. English is not my primary language, be mindful of that.

Chapter 1

The cemetery where my father rests sits on the edge of NYC, quiet in a way that feels almost unnatural because it is near crowded roads and constant noise. I stand in front of the grave with hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat, staring at the name carved into the stone.

I’m not entirely sure why I keep coming back. It takes almost 6 hours to drive from Montclair,Virgina to reach the suburbs of NYC.

I started coming here when I was 10, three years after I learned about my father’s death, and over time the visits became less frequent. There isn’t much to say once I arrive. The dead are, as I’ve learned, terrible conversationalists.

For several moments I simply look at the headstone and let the silence settle around. Someone left flowers for him recently. Not fresh enough to be placed this morning, but not old enough to have started wilting either.

“Someone still wants to pay their respect,” I say out loud. “Surely your dear son did this.”

The words are bitter and a sigh leaves me as I squat.

Jack Murdock.

Date of birth - 3 March 1955

Date of death - 12 November 1994

It is difficult to miss someone that gave you up after barely 3 months of living. Most of what I know of him comes from the stories aunt Georgia told me, newspaper clippings I found as a teenager, fragments of information I pieced together when curiosity got the best of me.

I know the outline of his life: Great boxer, but a very stubborn man who tried and failed to keep his family together.

For a long time, I was convinced that there’s only hate in my heart stored for him because of his decision to give me up. But the older I get, the less certain I am about it.

“You know, people always expect me to be angry when they hear how my childhood was, and I definitely was for a while. I still am sometimes.”

I understand half of why he chose to do that, even if I dislike the result. His relationship with my mother was already falling apart long before she completely abandoned him and her two children. His sister Georgia offered help—wealth, stability, a home that does not fall apart when it rains, opportunities that don’t come with strings tied directly to survival. But he didn’t want to depend entirely on someone else, he wanted to prove he can manage it all alone.

So he kept Matt and sent me away. Not because he loved one of us more. Because he genuinely believed he made the best decision available and that he could raise a boy better than a girl.

The understanding never removes the hurt.

My gaze drifts past the rows of headstones toward the skyline beyond the cemetery fence. Somewhere out there, New York exists beyond the horizon, loud and crowded and completely indifferent to me. Matt is there too.

I have been thinking about him more often lately, which annoys me more than I like to admit.

I know basic facts about him. I know he is a lawyer, how he lost his sight as a child. I know he built a reputation for himself that people talk about. Everything else is guesswork.

Sometimes I think we would get along surprisingly well. Other times I think we would drive each other insane within an hour. The logical answer is that we are probably nothing alike.

Still, I can’t stop wondering:

Would he be stubborn in the same way?

Would he hold grudges the way I do?

Would he recognize anything of himself in me?

The questions linger longer than they should, circling in my mind until I almost miss the vibration of my phone.

I frown when I see my supervisor’s name on the screen.

“Agent Murdock speaking.”

“Good morning agent, glad I caught you,” he says, and there is something in his tone that immediately makes me feel unsettled.

I shift my weight, one hand still tucked into the coat pocket, my gaze fixed on Jack Murdock’s name as if it might somehow help me interpret what I’m hearing.

“You are calling me on a Saturday,” I say. “Either something is on fire, or you are about to ruin my weekend.”

A faint pause follows, the kind people use when they are deciding how honest they want to be.

“I want to talk about a career opportunity,” he says finally. “How do you feel about New York?”

“I don’t really get a choice in how I feel about it, do I?”

There is a quiet breath on the other end, almost amused.

“You’ve been selected for reassignment.”

“Selected by whom?”

“The New York Field Office,” he says. “Organized Crime Task Force.”

“When am I supposed to leave?”

“In two days.”

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“You’re relocating me 260 miles away from home in forty-eight hours.”

“It’s already been approved. They need additional personnel and you are the best from our unit.”

That is the part that doesn’t sit right. Already approved.Not pending.

I glance down at the ground for a second, letting the weight of that settle properly. Something about it feels suspicious.

There isn’t really anything else to say that doesn’t sound like refusal, and refusal is not currently an option.

“Send me the details.”

“In a few moments,” he replies, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Congratulations, agent Murdock.”

The call ends and I sit still for a moment longer than necessary.

I turn my head slowly back toward the grave.

“Wish me luck, father.”

No response comes, which feels appropriate.

The drive back feels longer than usual. I don’t rush it, but I also don’t fully register the passing landscapes. The phone rests in the passenger seat beside, silent now, but not forgotten.

New York.

I’m not anxious. If anything, I feel something closer to curiosity, though it’s wrapped in a layer of caution I don’t bother to peel away.

Eventually, I call Georgia and she answers on the second ring.

“I assume you didn’t call to ask about my emotional wellbeing,” she says.

“I’m being transferred in two days.”

“Where?” she asks.

“New York.”

Another pause follows.

I can practically hear her setting down whatever she is holding and giving the conversation her full attention.

“That's rather sudden. What is the official explanation?”

“Organized Crime Task Force needs additional personnel.”

“And you believe that?”

A smile tugs briefly at my lips.

“No.”

“Good.”

I stare at the road ahead of me.

The afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, turning the landscape gold around the edges.

“I think somebody requested me specifically.”

Georgia is quiet for a moment.

“Do you have any idea who?”

“No. But I intend to find out.”

The amusement disappears from her voice.

“Are you on the way home?”

“Yes, I’ll arrive in the evening.”

“Be careful on the road.”

Then:

“Will you finally meet up with him?”

Matt.

My grip tightens around the steering wheel.

“I don't know.”

“You've been saying that for twenty years, Mallory.”

I don't answer back, because she's right. When I was younger, avoiding him felt easy. Necessary, even.

“We’ll talk more later,” Georgia says before I can formulate an answer.

Then she hangs up.

By the time I pull into the driveway, darkness has settled over Montclair. The house I’ve grown in looks larger in the evening light. Elegant and ridiculously expensive.

The front door opens before I reach the handle.

Georgia stands in the threshold with her arms folded.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

“Traffic.”

She rolls her eyes and steps aside.The familiar scent of expensive candles immediately greets me.

Neither of us speaks immediately. I sink into the couch of the living room while she settles into the chair across from me. Her gaze studies me carefully.

“You're nervous,” she says eventually.

“No, I'm not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I am not.”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“Mallory.”

“Fine,” I say. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s good.”

I blink.

“Why?”

Georgia reaches for her glass.

“If you told me you weren't worried about moving to New York, I'd assume somebody replaced you with a considerably less intelligent woman.”

The tension eases slightly and she leans forward.

“You've done very well these last seven years.”

I don't say anything.

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I do.

She’s talking about the fixations I had for stealing and stalking.The impulses that used to feel impossible to ignore.

They didn't disappear though, I simply learned how to live around them.

“How long has it been?” Georgia asks.

“Since what?”

“Since you stole something.”

I try to think about it and the day when I stole an Iron Man toy from Walmart, to give it to a boy from our neighbour, pops up in my head.

“Six years. Why do you bring this up now?”

“Because I want to say that I'm proud of you.”

The words catch me completely off guard. Georgia rarely says things like that.

“You should be proud of yourself too,” she continues.

I look away. Compliments have always made me uncomfortable.

“You worked very hard to become the person you are now.”

“I'm still the same person.”

The room falls silent. Outside, wind brushes against the windows.

Georgia watches me for a moment.

“New York is going to be difficult.”

“I know that, aunt.”

“You'll be surrounded by people full of secrets.”

“I work for the FBI, nothing new for me.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

I smile faintly and Georgia sighs.

“Mallory, the biggest problem was that once something interested you, you couldn't leave it alone until it became a fixation that didn’t have healthy boundaries.”

The observation lands a little too hard.

“I hope you can manage to control those urges, just like you did these past 6 years.”

She studies me for another moment.

“And one more thing.”

I already know I'm not going to like this.

“What?”

“If you decide to meet your brother...”

My shoulders tense immediately.

“...don't spend weeks stalking him before your first meeting.”

“I wasn't planning to.”

“Mallory.”

“I wasn't.”

“You're lying.”

“Maybe.”

Georgia pinches the bridge of her nose and she reaches for the glass with red wine that sits on the table while I stare at the fireplace, watching the flames shift behind the glass panel. The conversation has exhausted most of the heavier subjects for now, leaving only practical matters behind.

Which is why I finally say it.

"I need a favor."

"That statement always costs me money."

She takes a sip of the wine before setting the glass down.

"How much?"

I shift slightly in my seat.

"New York is expensive."

"It certainly is."

"I have savings, but I would feel better if I had a larger safety net."

Georgia studies me carefully for a moment.

"For emergencies."

Her expression softens.

"I don't mind helping you, Mallory. When your father brought you to me, he asked me to look after you as best as I could."

Something tightens unexpectedly in my chest.

"He knew he couldn't give you what you needed."

I look away. The mention of Jack has a way of complicating simple conversations.

Georgia continues anyway.

"Despite your occasional talent for causing me severe stress, I took that responsibility seriously."

A laugh escapes me.

"Occasional?"

"Don't interrupt."

I raise both hands in surrender.

She reaches for her tablet sitting on the side table.

"Give me a number."

“10 000 dollars.”

Her eyebrows rise.

"I hope you won’t be caught in many emergencies.”

A few moments later my phone vibrates. I pull it out and stare at the notification. The number displayed on the screen is significantly larger than the one I requested.

I look up.

"That's not what I asked for. It's almost double."

"I know."

I stare at her. She stares right back.

"Thank you for helping me."

The words come out quieter than I intend.

"You're welcome."

Then, because she apparently cannot allow sincerity to survive for longer than ten seconds, she points a finger at me.

"If you use that money to illegally obtain information on your brother or anyone else, I will never help you again."

I laugh and for the first time since receiving the transfer call this morning, some of the tension leaves my shoulders.

Our conversation ends a little after midnight. By then, practical matters take over my email.

Flight details sent by my supervisor.Housing.Paperwork.The thousand small things that accompany major life decisions.

When I finally go upstairs, exhaustion settles heavily across my shoulders.

My room looks exactly as I left it. Most people expect chaos when they hear stories about my childhood. They expect clutter, disorder. Something that reflects the impulsive decisions I spent years trying to outgrow.

Instead, everything has a place. The bed is neatly made. The bookshelves are organized. Not alphabetically, that would be excessive.

A desk sits beneath the window, free of unnecessary clutter except for a lamp, a few notebooks, and a collection of pens who are all victims of my urge to bite their lids.

The walls tell a different story. Photographs cover large sections of them, some are family pictures with Georgia. Some are photographs from places I visited. Others are random moments that caught my attention. Between them hang posters collected throughout the years with movies, celebrities and nature.

The most interesting thing is a section of my closet that has a false panel built into the back wall. Georgia doesn't know about it. At least I don't think she does.

Behind that panel sits a collection I stopped adding to six years ago.

The objects are arranged carefully inside several shallow storage boxes lined with dark fabric. Nothing is particularly large. A silver watch. A fountain pen with someone's initials engraved into the side. A bracelet. Expensive cufflinks. A small antique compass. A handful of items that seem insignificant on their own.

Together, they tell a story.

Every single one belongs to someone I disliked. Because they were cruel, arrogant, or because they simply annoyed me enough that taking something from them felt satisfying.

I never stole because I needed anything. Georgia provided more money than I knew what to do with.

The thrill came from something else entirely. It was a challenge. The fact that I can take something without being noticed.

Those objects are evidence of who I used to be. Evidence that all the progress people praise does not erase the person underneath it. So I keep them hidden. Out of sight. A private museum.

Most days I forget it's even there.

What gets my attention now is the suitcases that are waiting near the closet. I stare at them for a moment, then I begin packing.

Clothes first, documents second. Everything else after that.

As the hours pass, cardboard boxes gradually fill the room.By the time I finish, most of my life has been reduced to neat piles arranged across the floor.

I stand in the middle of the room and look around.

In thirty seven hours, New York will be my new home and somewhere out there, my brother lives his life completely unaware that his sister is finally coming to change his life.

Taglist I guess?: @the-ghost-bird @crazydexling