PLSPLSPLS I NEED JASON WITH A GIRL WHO IS LIKE A JOURNALIST/PHOTOGRAPHER AND THEY MEET AT ONE OF BRUCES GALAS AND SHES PART OF PRESS AND SHE IS THERE BEFORE ALL THE GUESTS ARRIVE AND SHES JUST QUIET AND FOCUSED AND HES LIKE HONED IN ON HER HNNNNG i’m passionate for this if you can’t tell.
The camera's strap hung around your neck. You could feel the weight of the white tote bag that you clutched tightly. There were three security guards who skillfully guarded the door. As you made your way for the door, one of them asked, "Who are you?"
You showed him your I.D., and they let you in. Perks of being a journalist. You were greeted with luxurious and well-placed decorations. The caterers had just arrived too. There were soft tunes playing, ranging from a delicate guitar to an exciting piano solo.
You quickly grabbed your camera and took a candid shot of a few caterers and DJs'.
You moved forward. Paintings littered the walls of the venue. It was beautiful. You grabbed your camera once again and started taking pictures.
But little did you know that one of the sons of Bruce Wayne was watching you intently. His gaze didn't stray away from you.
He watched as you worked. Whether it was taking pictures of the venue or jotting down notes in your notepad, he watched you with a smirk on his face and a goal in his heart.
Jason bit his lip. With a determined look on his face and a goal in mind, he walked over to you.
Currently, you are taking a few more pictures of the venue for coverage.
"Hey," you heard a low voice pang from behind you. You gasped and let out a shriek, dropping your camera to the floor.
As you turned around, you saw a familiar face. Jason Todd. You had once written an article about the Wayne family, even diving into some of the more personal things.
"Hi—hello," you stammered. Jason grinned. "Did I scare ya, pretty? Oh, I'm sorry." He bent down and picked up your camera, handing it back to you.
You hesitated before taking it. "I'm Jason," he introduced. "I know," you muttered quietly. You told him your name and smirked. "Pretty name for a pretty lady."
You blushed.
He leaned in. "You're really pretty; I'd love to take you out," Jason confessed. Your eyes widened.
Honestly, he seemed really sweet and genuine. But you weren't that type of girl. "But I don't know you enough, Jason."
He smirked. "What do ya wanna know, love? I'm an open book." Well, this was certainly going to be interesting.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
At some point, you did not know how things escalated this fast. At first, you two were having a friendly conversation, talking and laughing about shared interests. Then, after Jason begged you to stay at the gala, you and he got drunk together.
Strange, huh? Well, after that, you and he danced more than you could count. (And would probably be the main topic. Son of a billionaire and a journalist: Friends or Lovers?
Summary: basically a meet-cute drabble with Magnus and a mildly frustrated reader trying to find a lead on a compelling case. Might have a longer next part (that may or may not include smut)
Tags & Warnings: Mentions of murder.
Forenote: I rewrote this thrice and kept kept all copies LOL. This was the second rewrite, the third rewrite will be the second part—meaning it’s already halfway through!
Word Count: 1054
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You seemed to have a penchant for danger.
It was evident by the demeanour you had once carried all the way to the police station on your own. It was a busy afternoon, the sunlight carefully casting an illusion of safety—danger only lurked at night, did it not? Evil did not sleep, nor did the minds of those who sought answers; where better to find answers than from those who seek justice?
You padded across the police station carrying several notepads in your hand and a pencil. You stumbled and dropped a few things, but just as you moved to retrieve them, a second pair of hands had begun collecting them. As you reached out to get them back, you raised your eyes to thank the kind stranger properly.
You were greeted by a blue pair of eyes, wide and crinkling at the edges, in confusion, perhaps. You were not a colleague, nor were you dressed as an ordinary concerned citizen with something to report. Yet you walked into the station as though you knew it like the back of your hand.
A muttered “thank you” was all you managed. The stranger did not even have the time to respond before you spotted someone else behind him, the one you had come to visit for. Kurt Wallander. You remembered standing hastily, calling the detective’s attention. Magnus’ eyes followed your tracks; the loud clatter of your shoes fading as you followed the detective. That was his first impression of you, one he had not thought much of at the beginning.
That impression soon became reoccurring. Like a steadily-building routine, your presence grew in frequency at the Ystad Police Station. Magnus, and several other workers there, knew you for your voice–some spoke about your demands, some called you nagging. You paid no heed. All you cared for was answers, a hook, a story to write to mark your role in society as a journalist.
“You keep running your mouth that way and people might start to notice. The kind you don’t want to keep close behind your back.” Wallander’s words one day had interrupted you mid-sentence, making you pause in your tracks. Every other question swimming within your mind was silenced, barring the words from leaving your mouth. “You’ve already got yourself into quite the predicament. If I were you I’d start keeping an eye over my shoulder. Let this one go.”
He left as you remained pondering where you stood. It wasn’t until the commotion returned that you had realized it had all stopped for a moment, that people were listening in on your conversation.
You had gone above and beyond today. But you thought anything below it meant merely behaving and playing a part–remaining complacent to the absurd events occurring around you. A string of seemingly unrelated murders seemed like a surreal enough situation. You just had to uncover what everyone was trying so desperately to hide. All you needed was somewhere to begin. Though it was evident you would not be finding that here.
You spun on your heel and walked straight into another figure blocking your path; the collision was followed by the sensation of liquid warmth soaking through your blouse.
“Shit–”
“Sorry,” muttered Magnus. You watched as he used one hand in a vain attempt to wipe at the coffee staining his shirt. The other held the now quarter-filled cup.
“No, please, I was the one who wasn’t looking. I doubt these would do much of anything, but here,” you handed him a few pieces of tissue from your pocket from the coffee you had taken out earlier that day. He used them to clean the coffee that had spilled on his hand. He opens his mouth to express his gratitude, but the sight of your own stained shirt makes him eat his words. “Are you sure you didn’t need these more than I do?”
When he looks back up at you, there is a look in his eyes you are quite familiar with. But it is something you never thought to name–was it awe or disbelief, repulsion, maybe?
“You’re the journalist.” He says in a tone you would associate with a toddler finding a shiny rock in his mother’s garden.
“Yes, it’s—“ you clear your throat.
“Y/N, I know.” He interrupts. You respond with a smile, mustering whatever semblance of cordiality you had left in you after your earlier encounter with the detective. It precedes an awkward silence between you two, one that compels you to fill the space.
“And you’re—“
“Magnus—“
“Martinsson, I know. Does Wallander really let you cut into people like that? He seems to hate it when I do it.”
Magnus crosses his arms, pursing his lips—his features alight with amusement. “Well judging by your stance, he must have been doing all the interrupting.” He assesses you from head to toe, his eyes surveying you almost comically.
With a roll of your eyes, you walk around him, and you hear his footsteps follow. “He certainly isn’t the open-minded type,” you say as you—ineffectually—try rubbing the stain off your shirt and he falls into step right next to you.
He hums in thought, shrugging. “Well he does usually take a little more convincing than most.”
Your response is a mere shake of your head. But his next words have you stopping in your tracks, just inches away from the exit’s threshold: “But I can help you.”
You whirl towards his direction with a flourish. “To some extent, I suppose—and if you can ensure that you can keep yourself safe on your own then…” he adds, albeit sheepishly. Truth be told, he’d been waiting on the opportunity to be on the field again. He tries to keep his mirth at bay, but it isn’t the most difficult to spot in eyes as clear and blue as his.
“Of course I can,” you say simply. Then, he feels the pad of your forefinger against his chest, a business card pinned between. You wait for him to take it before retracting.
It read plain and simple, containing all he needed to know if he was being serious.
“Just give me a call.” He looks up from the card as you speak, anticipating you’d say more. All you give him is a small, cordial smile, before finally finding your way through the door.
Magnus doesn’t realise he’d been smiling.
Somewhere behind him, someone whistles and parrots your words.
Today was finally the day! I finally made it to one of the largest cities, a place where I can finally pursue my dream of becoming a journalist, and the one place I can make my dreams come true is in the big apple! New York city to be exact, it’s the number one place to become a journalist! And I won’t let anything get in my way from my dreams, but in order for me to prove that i’m a worthy journalist I have to find a story to write about… New York is a very large place, maybe I can find a story at the local cafe? I held onto the strap of my bag as I sauntered down the street heading for the nearest cafe in sight.
After a bit of a walk I made it to a cute little cafe, I sat down at one of the tables, I took out my old notepad and an old pencil, which may have a few bite marks indented into the wood from the stress of my old job, I use to work in an old office but it was so stressful I just flat out quit, I used the money I earned to buy a plane ticket to new York so I can pursue my real dream of being a journalist, as I sat at the small little table I ordered my (F/D), as I waited for the barista to finish my order I noticed a man around 5’5, slick back blondie hair, and what seemed to be light red rosy cheeks I was too far to see his eye color but it didn’t exactly matter, I watched as he walked out of what seemed to be a dark alley, now why would someone come out of an alley? What was he doing there? Was he meeting someone? Was he fucking someone? Or was he doing something suspicious, that was when I found that I was going to write a story on this strange man! As I was about to stand up and follow the man my drink finally arrived I grabbed it and chugged it down as I ran to catch up what the man hoping I don’t get caught or seen by the man, I wrote all sorts of things, as I watched the man go through his routine, but as the day went on I didn’t find anything suspicious I was going to give up as I wrote a bit more notes into my notepad that was when I realized the man was gone, I tried to find him, how did he vanish so fast I was about to continue down the road when a voice from behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin, as I turned I was face to face with the man I was just following, how did he end up behind me without me noticing! This man is full of so many surprises…
“Why are you following me?” The young man had a stern look on his face, but also one of worry as if he was afraid, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.
“I’m an inspiring journalist! And I'm trying to find someone to write a story on, I saw you walk out of a dirty old alley and immediately thought why would a man walk out from an alley if it’s not for sex or a shady deal… So what do you have to say about that!” I held up my old recording tool, I watched as the man went pale and tried to avoid the question.
“Uh.. well.. You see.. Hey! I don’t have to answer your questions, this is harassment, and please stop following me, it’s creepy.” I let out a huff as I put my recording tool away crossing my arms in defeat.
“Can’t you tell me a little.. I need a story! I came all the way to New York to pursue my dreams!” The man before me froze mid-walk, yes, he was starting to walk away but as I said it was my dream to be a reporter he froze as if something in him clicked, I watched as he slowly turned around to face me again.
“Your dream?” He let out a hearty sigh as he stepped forward. “All you want is a few questions correct?” I nodded fast which made me a tad dizzy but I quickly shook it off as I looked at him with stars in my eyes as I was finally able to get a scoop in!. “Fine, let's head back to the cafe and I'll answer some questions you have for me.” I couldn’t help but let out a happy squeal as I took the Man's hand and dragged him back to the cafe, it took him a bit to catch up and not get trampled on he swiftly stood up straight when we were met with the same table table I sat at, we sat down and I started to take everything I needed out, A notepad and a pencil.
“Ok sir! First question.. What's your name?” As that question left my mouth the man couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, I raised a brow as I looked at him.
“Sorry sorry! Just you were following me for about 5 minutes and dragged me here after I agreed to answer questions and you didn’t ask for my name before? Well, my name is Lucifer, and yes, I know it’s a strange name, my parents obviously didn’t love me.” I was shocked as I heard his name, who yeah his parents naming him lucifer must’ve really hated him or been really into satanic shit.
“Ok that’s an odd name for a child.. And yeah your parents must have been quite insane giving their child a name of the devil… Enough of that I'm assuming you wish to know the name of the person who’s writing a potential story about you, well my name is (Y/N), now Lucifer what were you doing in that alley?”
I watched as his figure stiffened a bit with the fact I brought up the alley once again, he seemed to not want to talk about why he was there. “Oh well… I like to sit there in the dark thinking about the life choices I made.” I stared at him with a bit of worry and shock.
“You sit in a dark creepy alley where there are potential rats and maybe a few dead bodies once laid, to think of your life choices?” I set my note pad down as I didn’t exactly know if I should write it down or not and I wasn’t sure If he was telling the truth or a lie just so I would stop asking and move on. “Ok Lucifer that is something, and quite unsanitary but when you need to cry and wallow in peace, I suppose an alley is a place no one would look for you at.” I picked up my pencil and started to chew on it without even realizing it, but Lucifer seemed to have noticed.
“Hey, chewing on that pencil might hurt your teeth, I know it can be stressful work but I’m here to help you finally get a good story.” Lucifer stood up from his chair and walked over to my side of the table, I was about to stand up but was stopped as he placed both his hands on my shoulders and started to gently massage them, I was a bit tense on and confused on what he was doing but I started to slowly relax. “I get stressed and quite depressed often, my daughter always told me that it’s best to not bottle up any stress I may be having and it’s best to talk it out with a friend or family, it helped me when I was in a state of depression when my wife left me, I hardly left my house, I knew my daughter was worried about me so when I talked to her again I started to feel better, so anything that’s stress you out, don’t bottle it up, let it all out.”
I couldn’t help but blink a few times as I processed everything he had said, he has a daughter? He doesn’t look that old and yet he has a daughter. I was in shock that I didn’t even realize he sat back down, I blinked a couple of times as I did feel a bit better after the short massage he gave me. “Wait so you have a daughter? I shouldn’t be surprised at this point, you're always full of so many surprises, now that answers the question, I was going to ask next about family.” I let out a laugh as I wrote things down, I didn’t want to be crude and ask for her name, so I just settled with knowing now he has a daughter and an ex-wife. “I do get stressed from work, that’s why I quit my old job and moved here to New York, I wanted to be a journalist, it’s always been my dream! Plus, I get to meet such interesting people, such as yourself!” I gave him a soft smile till I looked at what time it was, my eyes shot open, SHIT! I’m going to be late, I was supposed to meet up with someone who was offering me a room in their apartment complex for cheap and if I don’t get there on time, I won’t be able to get it, so I quickly shot up grabbing my things. “I-I’m sorry! I got to go! I’m going to be late! I was supposed to meet up with someone to get a room at their apartment complex! And if I don’t leave now I’ll miss my chance! I then quickly scribbled my number into my note pad, ripping the page off and handed it to him. “If you have more to give me, feel free to call me!” And with that I booked it down the street towards the apartments, leaving Lucifer behind with a confused expression as I just upped and left, He looked at the paper in his hand, it was a bit rushed but he could easily read out the number written, it was a bit messy but he’s seen worst penmanship, he placed the number in his pocket before heading back to the alley.
Lucifer’s (P.O.V)
Today was supposed to be just a normal day picking up an order I bought from earth, and I didn’t expect someone to actually see me leaving the alley where I come and go from hell to earth, I should’ve been more careful. The worst part is, she was a journalist! It was the worst thing to have happened, why did I have to get caught by a journalist… and worst of all I don’t know why I agreed to answer her questions, but something about journalism being her dream caught me off guard and I just couldn’t say no.
I ran my hands through my hair as I leaned against the graffitied wall not knowing what to do. I can’t tell her who I really am, she’ll freak out or at worst write it in a story that the devil is back in town, why is he here? Are we safe? Are we in danger? Whose soul will he drag down to hell, I slapped me hand into my face, at least she didn’t question my name… I don’t know why I couldn’t think of a fake name I just was so caught up in the moment that I told her my real name… at least she just thought I had messed up parents which was good.
I looked around to make sure no one was watching as I was reopening a portal, which was directly to my foray, what am I going to do with this journalist… I can’t kill her people who care about her might ask questions, and I definitely can’t kidnap her, I’m not the type to kidnap an innocent woman just because of her career, I stepped through the portal as It closed right behind me, with a wave of my hand my human disguise vanished, my red circle cheeks returning along with my white skin, I collapsed onto the sofa, I can’t tell Charlie about this she’ll just question everything and will insist on coming with me but earth is a very dangerous place and I can’t lose the only family I have left, I can’t go back there.. But if I don’t go back then (Y/N) will get suspicious that I just vanished without a trace. I placed my hat over my eyes, maybe I can sleep it off… Yeah, maybe some good ol Z’s will take everything off my mind. I closed my eyes relaxing on the soft sofa not bothering to move to my bed, which would probably be more comfortable, but I was too tired after today, as my eyes were closed, I was met with a beautiful dream.
AN: Ugh, so it's been sitting in my documents for a while, thought I would just share it finally.
Not everyone has a soul mate, Sukuna Ryomen firmly believed that, as he lit yet another cigarette on the balcony, while staring at the vast night sky. He was the CEO of one of the most flourishing business companies in Japan, as such, the pink haired man carried a heavy burden on his shoulders.
Despite being a serious man, he let himself indulge in vain activities such as dying his hair pink, or sporting tattoos on his body which were not proper in his position, but after all looks would never determine a person’s capability.
Both in life and business Sukuna was straight to the point and courageous. He was proud of his intelligence and that he was a skilled leader. The man’s creativity and insightful thinking got them out of many hard situation, making Sukuna a well liked man in the company.
Despite not sure how to handle emotions he tried to do what he could. Sometimes he was the one who worked overtime just to let his subordinates leave earlier. He may seem nonchalant or uncaring, but he always remembers birthdays or special days and surprise his people with a pretty lavish gift bag, unsigned of course, but everyone knows it was from him.
Sukuna is a busy man. Aside from being the CEO of an important business company, he does charity work, goes to the gym almost every day and tries to balance out his social life with his work life. He fails miserably.
So here he is, smoking his third cigarette in an hour, blowing gray puffs. That’s when his scarlet eyes meet with e/c ones. A woman with h/c hair stands on her balcony, staring at him.
He swears he has seen those eyes somewhere, but before he could really look at the woman, she disappears into her apartment. Sukuna shrugs, but those eyes still bugs him.
Next day, after work, he goes to his usual charity work, where they cook for the homeless. That’s where he sees her again. She looks dishevelled, hair messy, eyes tired, makeup smeared. The woman is holding a camera, taking pictures of the people cooking and serving.
Tired eyes focus on the happenings around her, never missing a smile, a thankful glance, the determination of the ones working here. She may look drained but after taking some photos, she puts on an apron and starts to peel some vegetables.
Sukuna wondered if this woman is actually insane, she was in the verge of collapsing yet she jumped right into the work after finishing taking photos.
Looking at her camera, the man knew she must be an experienced photographer, since the object worth about six months of an average wage. Yet, her clothes were simple, nothing fancy, no brand name, just everyday clothes.
A conversation hit his ears as he was cutting the previously peeled and cleaned organic vegetables.
-Thank you for coming miss, we are so grateful for actually caring about our case, it means a lot to us and all the unfortunate people.
-Oh no, please, I am the honoured one here. Thank you for letting me take pictures, I make sure it gets into our journal. People must know about this situation and hopefully it would inspire them to help.
-Actually we have some bigger businessmen, lawyers, even actors helping around, they usually attract people to grab the spoon, which we are grateful. The more the merrier.
The silent conversation continued, but Sukuna couldn’t pay attention, because he was wanted at the serving station. It was already dark and a bit chilly, so some helper, including the pinkette gathered together to discuss the future donations.
-Excuse me, I’ve heard you are talking about donations, would you mind if I joined and take some pictures while you’re talking? –A meek voice called the attention of everyone and some people already nodded eagerly, so the woman walked around, taking photos of them. When she got to Sukuna, he stared at the camera with blank expression on his face.
-You are... –She started but the businessman shook his head mouthing a “don’t”, the woman nodded and turned her attention to the others. After half an hour she properly thanked the opportunity and left.
Not everyone has a soul mate, Sukuna wondered. Maybe his is just lost or just as busy as he is. His mind was full of imaginary scenarios of a kind soul, when he stopped by to buy his usual business journal, he was not ready to see himself with a bunch of volunteers on the front page.
He doesn’t look like this most of the time: his hair was messily hung in his eyes, his sharp red orbs were full of softness and mirth as he handed a bowl to a smiling old lady.
At first he was confused, then a sweet laugh escaped his lips and bought that journal as well.
The article was written by Miss Y/n, he found out she was a photographer and journalist, specializing in charity work and social issues in a mediocre journal, which is just on the corner.
He wanted to drop by and surprise the lady with the pretty eyes, but she would probably be scared, after all, the journalist recognized her and probably sees him as the big hit Ryomen Sukuna, the king of business and not the man who he really is.
Sukuna was single by choice. His job demands a lot of time, effort and energy. If he wants a relationship, he wants it perfect. With trips, romantic evenings, lots of laughter, adventures and so much fun. He wants a special someone who appreciates him and not his money.
Being a businessman, he knows that people are material, so he doesn’t even care anymore. With occasional one night stands, some messing around, he is perfectly satisfied physically.
-Yes, my article got the front page, imagine mom. –An excited sound disturbed the otherwise quite shop. Sukuna just paid for his things when his eyes met with hers.
She blushed furiously, making the man smirk. Guess, it was his luck, see he wanted to surprise the woman, but decided otherwise, yet, he still managed to do it.
-Today I’d be at another charity organization. Here is the address. –Sukuna handed Y/n a piece of paper. –Your article is not bad.
a/n: well, I wrote this during my break, I don’t know if I got better or I got worse but I wrote it! it’s good to be back writing and I really like this idea and can’t wait to keep going !!
He didn’t remember how to live in a city that wasn’t in Colombia.
The echo around the small staff parking lot clearly came from a car backfiring, yet his mind immediately jumped to a gunshot, like all the ones he had fired and all the ones that had been fired back at him. As his dress shoes stepped out onto the loose and dusty asphalt of the lot, the fresh morning breeze froze him with the shocking chill of winter, yet it was the distinct sound of the car backfiring that woke him up the rest of his way out of his self-induced hangover.
It sounded like a gunshot.
It was nearly 8 in the morning on a regular old Monday in Austin, yet he jumped like the sound had echoed around a small Colombian alleyway where Carrillo was holding an army of young boys on their knees. And with the haunting noise came the onslaught of painful memories whether he recognized the reality of the situation or not, the same wave of emotions that used to keep him up in an empty bed back in Bogota now crashing over him as he leaned against the side of his car with a bag of papers over his shoulder instead of a gun on his hip. He could feel the guilt tearing him apart from the inside out, he could feel the weight of his conscious settling heavy in his gut and on his shoulders, pulling him to the ground and exacerbating the very real pain in his back with a phantom pull.
Each breath of freezing air in and out did little to calm him even as he fought his own mind back towards some semblance of composure while his colleagues exited their cars around him and began walking in towards campus. His lungs burned with the fresh assault of the winter chill while also aching for the burn of something stronger, for one of the straggling cigarettes he was sure he could find in the car despite having quit nearly a year ago when he got back.
Back to the States, back to Texas and now back to Austin.
Another round of deep breaths and he slowly began to regain a hint of himself back, he wasn’t sure what that was worth but breath after breath, as the memories that were somewhat of a constant fixture in his damaged mind began to fade back into their quiet lingering in the back of his mind, he slowly found himself back in the staff parking lot. His vision was still faded at the edges, but he could muster up enough strength in his chest to look down to his watch, the nice, new, expensive one that the DEA had given him as a parting present. The edges of the cold metal dug uncomfortably into the skin of his wrist, and every shift he made pinched the hair of his arm within the metal brackets of the band, but the crystal face did what it was designed to do and told him that it was no longer just nearly 8 in the morning, it was exactly 8 in the morning.
And his lecture started in ten minutes.
It wasn’t even a gunshot, it was a sound that vaguely resembled a gunshot and three minutes had to pass before he could stand up straight again.
What is wrong with me? He cursed close to his chest as his freezing, trembling hands moved to rub over his eyes before adjusting the strap of his bag securely on his shoulder. Whatever he was feeling didn’t matter, he had to lock his car and get to class.
The ghost town like campus he crossed to get to his lecture hall was a fair preparation for what was in store for him when he walked in, just a minute before he was obligated to begin lecturing. The students who had the decency to show up were scarce and separate across the 60 person lecture hall, maybe filling up about a third of the seats if he was being favorable in his estimates. It wasn’t a surprise, not only had it been exactly the same for the majority of his first semester teaching, but on day one of this current semester, when he announced that attendance wasn’t mandatory, he was quickly interrupted by one student packing up and leaving on the spot, before the syllabus was even fully covered.
The twenty or so students he did get were always the same. He was bad at learning names, but it was the second week of classes and he had their faces, he had always been better with faces. Whether it was sitting for hours on stakeouts mentally cataloging every face that passed while Steve took diligent photos for them to search through later or keeping track of the students who regularly showed up for his lectures, he was good with faces.
It was why he knew that you didn’t belong the second he dropped his bag to the desk, pulled out a stack of papers, and lifted his head to say ‘good morning’ only to find a brand new face sat in the back row of his desolate and moderately dilapidated lecture hall.
His head immediately went into a downward spiral, considering and subsequently crossing out theory after theory as to who you were, immersed among his students, yet too old and too put-together to be one of them. While they couldn’t care less that he walked in the room to begin lecturing, you were actually paying attention, following him as he pulled out his good pen and lecture notes, still following him as he turned to the board to begin writing only to turn back to grab chalk from his bag when he found none at the board. He only made eye contact with you once, the first time he caught sight of you, but he was trained for this sort of thing, for feeling a pair of eyes staying attached to him even as he turned his back or looked away, and it stuck with him as well as all the haunting memories.
Were you auditing the class? Surely he would have been told to expect you or at the very least, he would recognize you as another member of his department, but you weren’t, so clearly that wasn’t the case. Maybe you were lost? But then again, with the way your stare locked to him the second he walked in, that also wasn’t the case at hand. A grad student with questions? A desperate TA looking for a job and hoping he was given the budget to hire one? Even those felt like a stretch, besides, he had office hours posted on the wall outside his office and in the department catalog, any student would just find him then.
That left him with one remaining, yet exhaustedly confusing option. You weren’t a student, you weren’t associated with the university at all.
What did that mean for why you were there? He couldn’t say.
He glanced back down to his watch and sucked in a deep breath of the stale, warm air of the room, and resigned himself to the fact that it was now twelve minutes after the hour. He had to start class, whoever you were was a problem for him once class was finished.
“Good morning…” He exhaled the heavy breath and paced toward the middle of the space allotted for him to lecture in, chalk in one hand and slowly loosening fist in the other which came up to rub over the top of his mustache as he cleared his throat. “I have your short answer questions back from last week, but I’ll have you come get them after class so that I can start talking about today’s topic of government oversight…”
By the half hour mark, as expected, a handful of students were beginning to doze off while he outlined the exemptions to the Freedom of Information act. But not you in the back of the class, leaned back in your seat with your hands in your lap, diligently following along while even his students who tried to take notes were falling behind as yawns overtook them.
That was the way it continued for the rest of the hour as well. By the time the hands beneath the crystal of his watch face where clicking softly towards the nine o'clock hour and the distant chimes of the clock tower out in the courtyard rang out, his students were only awake because he was calling out their names, attempting to pass back their short answer responses from last Monday’s lecture. Each one who grabbed their paper took it, stuffed it into their bag, and cleared from the room about as fast as they were likely to move if they were fleeing a fire, like his lectures were somehow as disastrous an equivalent.
Some had the decency to say a quick ‘thank you’ before leaving at a normal pace, but it was a minority of students at best. Thankfully, having less students in lecture meant having less to pass back, the rest of the students would just have to come get them during office hours.
That left him with just you in the large and empty lecture hall. The mysterious you.
“Can I help you with something?” He voiced once the final student took their paper and left the room.
He turned back to his desk, sticking the stack back in his bag as he heard you descending the lecture hall stairs behind him, but within seconds, as he moved to put his pen away alongside his lecture notes, you were in front of him, extending your hand and introducing yourself.
Your smile confirmed what he was already sure he knew, you were no student. The last time a student smiled in this room was when he said that his tests would be relatively easy on the first day of class while he was going over the syllabus, and yours was too mature to paint you as a student, too warm as it filled the emptiness of the stale air.
Still, that left him with nothing else to go off of as he took you hand for a firm, respectful shake and offered his name in return, “Javier Peña.”
Then you finished your introduction and any breath of fresh air you had offered to the stagnant room fell as flat as his monotone voice did while he lectured.
“I’m a reporter with the Austin Statesman.”
There was no hiding his distaste for journalists, so why even bother. It had been bred into him long before he ever got involved with the DEA but ever since returning to the states, it had grown more and more like hatred instead of distaste if he was being honest.
He was hounded by calls from reporters across the country wanting him to talk about Escobar and Colombia and what it was all like, just so they could put his face on the front page under a headline that read ‘Escobar’ and reap the benefits of selling his soul out for entertainment. A reporter even had the audacity to show up at his father’s house trying to ask him questions about what he thought of the whole thing.
So when the scoff bubbled out of his chest and his hand singed from where he held yours, he made no attempt to hide it. He pulled his hand away, rolled his eyes and finished filling his bag, able to keep his stare from your form for the first time since he had noticed you, he wanted you to be the furthest thing from his mind even as you moved to maintain his attention.
“You won’t even hear me out?”
He could hear the amusement in your voice as you fought back, and as he spared a quick glance back to you, he found your stood steady across from him, hands holding the strap of your messenger bag which crossed your chest with a steady kind of confidence settling in your shoulders. It was smugness, and for a man who had spent his entire career surrounded by the most smug men imaginable, government men, he had to say, you were doing a fine job of it yourself.
He hated it. It might have looked better on you than it ever did the men in suits that surrounded him, but he still hated it.
“I’m not interested.” He spoke as a matter of fact as he collected the last of his things, put his bag back on his shoulder and moved passed you towards the door his students had just left through.
But it had been naïve to think that the dedication that led you to sit through his entire lecture would suddenly evaporate as he moved out into the hall now bustling with students moving to their next classes. With one glance over his shoulder, he found you matching his intensity to get away with your intensity to keep up.
And as he burst through the outside doors, he found you going step for step with him out into the cold breeze of the courtyard filled with students crossing in every direction.
“You don’t even know why I’m here,” you spoke up as he seemed to only move faster, fighting you as much as he was fighting for warmth in the freezing winter morning.
“You’re a reporter for the Austin paper, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
With another glance back over his shoulder, his stare landed on you in the exact moment your eyes gave a subtle roll and a scoff, equally as indignant as his own had been, fell from your wind-chapped lips. Lips he had absolutely no business looking at, he reminded himself as he turned his head back to the hoard of sleep-deprived students around him with no plans to stop for you to catch up. Not until his feet hit the dampened grass in the middle of the courtyard and he felt a hand grab the loose fabric where his suit jacket bunched at the bend of his elbow.
He was stopped where he stood and you quickly moved around him to come face to face with him, brow firm with a determination he was all too familiar with. It wasn’t just stubbornness, he could see that much clearer now as the gentle rays of sun cut through the grey morning clouds to illuminate your face, it was absolute determination.
The same determination that caught him Escobar.
“I’m sure I’m not the first to come with this offer but it’s not what you think,” you huffed, the exhausted breath hot as it fled your lips but quickly condensing in the icy air between the two of you as you settled in front of him.
The cold was biting at your bare face and attacking your fingertips, forcing a desperate clench to your fists around the strap of your back across your chest as you, very subtly but easily noticed by his careful watching eye, bounced on your toes while you held his attention and continued, “I’m not interested in writing some glorified Escobar tell-all.”
Another chilly breeze whipped through the courtyard as the students around the two of you continued streaming, flowing like diligent fish in a school, into the surrounding buildings in a blur. One by one they passed by in his peripheral, but with his breath holding stale in his throat, he truly only saw you and each individual edge to your face, as equally stern in its seriousness as soft in its sincerity.
Every painful memory that haunted his head told him to keep his mouth shut and his brow furrowed, but his gut said something else entirely.
His gut had gotten him through fire and fury and home in mostly one piece every night, and as he looked at you, scanning your disposition and lingering on your focused face, his gut was telling him that he could trust you at your word. It wasn’t his heart, or any other muscle in his body as his stare held heavy on your face, it truly was his gut. And he trusted his gut.
Fuck… he was itching for a cigarette.
“What do you have an… interest in?” He sucked his lip briefly through his teeth as his hand mindlessly reached for his mustache again, his freezing fingertips pushing it down as he moved to rub over his lips.
“Right now?” You quirked your head a little to the side, your shoulders raising to your ears slightly. “To be having this conversation in a heated building?”
The scoff that fell out of his chest was admitably slightly hostile, but the gentle nod of his head was not. Within the second it left his lips, he found himself continuing his walk towards the old office building ahead and you trailing right behind him, a smugness still settled comfortably on your lips.
He even did better than a warm building.
As he left you in his office for a brief second to grab himself a cup of coffee, he found a clean extra mug and poured you a fresh cup as well. Your ‘thanks’ was quiet as you accepted it, and as he settled down in his seat behind his desk, he drew you back from where you stood by the back wall, casually studying his diplomas and book shelf.
“If not an Escobar entertainment piece, what did you have in mind?”
He pulled you back to reality and after you stole a sip of your coffee, you settled into the seat across from him. “My editor wants a promotable local to put in a headline and I promised you, it doesn't really matter what I write about as long as your name is in big print above the fold.”
He laughed. A real laugh. He barely remembered what it felt like but as soon as it started, he knew it was a genuine laugh.
It was funny, ironic actually, you couldn’t see that, obvious by the twist of your face in confusion, but it was all he could see.
It was the kind of shit he would have pulled when he was younger, more dedicated to his position, and as driven as you were. Doing the most you could in the way you wanted while still technically doing as you were told, it was damn near poetic.
“He won’t mind if you don’t mention Escobar?” He countered, feeling warmth spark in his chest as his coffee burned down his throat with a deep swallow.
But you just shrugged, doing the same. “She just wants to sell papers, won’t mind if readers don’t necessarily find the entertainment they expect.”
“And what will they find?” Relaxing back in his seat, holding his coffee close to his chest, he watched as you did the same, reclining into the uncomfortable wooden chair with one leg uncrossed from the other.
“I’ll write whatever you want me to write. I mean, it should at least be slightly relevant to Colombia but if you just want to say ‘hey, I was there and now I’m here, teaching at my alma mater,’ I’m sure I can manage something like that.”
He scoffed again, but this time, it echoed out of his chest much more like a chuckle than like a scoff, no heat, no annoyance, nothing more than a small hint of amusement, something he hadn’t felt rattle around his chest in a long time. Too long… And he knew why that was.
He knew why he tried to get away from you the second you showed up, and while some of it definitely had to do with the press badge lanyard hanging out of your bag where it was sat next to your feet, a lot of it had to do with the determination he saw in your brow in the first second after he blew you off. It was something he could find himself too easily attracted to, and that wasn’t what he deserved.
He deserved cold mornings and colder nights, kept awake by the aggressive, tormenting nightmares of his own reality, not warm coffee and laughs. Whatever this was, whatever it had the potential to be, even if it were to just be you writing a piece with his name and his story, it just wouldn’t work.
Any gut feeling about you was trampled by the solid the solid reality of the matter. He didn’t deserve it and he knew that.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at talking about myself, or Colombia, or anything that would make a story, so…” He trailed off, trying to keep his eyes anywhere but where your lingering stare could find it, specifically, the deep dark color of the coffee in his cup while the bitter taste sat heavy in his mouth. But the words he needed to get out, those were much worse settling on his tongue. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think it will work.”
As his hand reached up to rub absentmindedly over his nose and mouth again, his stare hesitantly lifted to yours, trying to get a read on where you were at, but your smug smirk had yet to vacate your lips where you leaned back in your seat.
“I’m a pretty good writer, Agent Peña,” you argued.
“I have no trouble believing that, but I’m not good at this, I can’t—”
He couldn't even get the words out before you were leaning forward to leave your mug on his desk and bending down for your bag. His mouth opened to sputter out some defense, but you hadn’t left yet, you had just pulled a small business card from the side pocket of your bag and put it into his hand, and when he looked from the two phone numbers that followed your name and title at the Statesman, he found the smug look had softened on your face but hadn’t dissipated entirely.
“There’s actually a protest happening across campus right now, so I’ve got to get going…” you trailed off with a shrug.
“You double-booked me?”
With a laugh, you grabbed your bag and tossed it effortlessly over your shoulder and gave another brief shrug, “The job keeps me pretty busy and I figured I would already be on campus, so.”
He stood to match your height and extended a hand for you to shake as another apology spilled from his lips, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be that headline for your boss.”
“So you say.”
“Excuse me?” His head quirked as your hand took his with a shake equally as firm in it’s determination as your brow was.
“I was embedded overseas, I know the look,” you shrugged, much to casual for what you were implying as you dropped his hand and stepped back towards the shut office door. “Call any time, if you don’t get me, you’ll get my assistant and she can track me down.”
Looking down at the card, twirling the sharp edges of the card stock between his fingers, he was stuck, knowing something needed to be said on his end but not capable of finding the words.
You weren’t done yet though, “Any hour. Whether you want to talk about the piece I’m going to write or, I don’t know, maybe how to keep your students awake during lecture. Just, call anytime.”
His head twisted as confusion over took him, "The piece you’re going to write? I just said—”
“I heard what you said.” Your smile was truly genuine as it found your lips, erasing any hint of mocking smugness as you held the doorknob and lingered in his doorway. “I’ll be awaiting your call.”
But that wasn’t your final line, not as you held in the doorway and pointed towards his diplomas, specifically towards the University of Texas diploma closest to the door. “You know, I’ve got one of these too.”
“A lot of people do...” he sighed, settling back in his chair with a huff of exhaustion much to heavy for the hour of the morning that read on his uncomfortable watch.
But as his stare drifted back to you in the doorway, having expected you to have already left but finding you still lingering, he saw something else in the way you looked back to him. Something he had been hard pressed to find ever since he got back, something he certainly hadn’t found in the eyes of any other reporters that had stopped by.
It was understanding to some degree. Not just because the two of you shared an alma mater, but something else. Like you had said, you knew his look.
He thought you had just meant that you knew plenty of men who didn’t like to talk about their feelings but that wasn’t what you were getting at. There was something else there, another layer that you saw through, another level of understanding.
Maybe he was hallucinating it, or maybe his gut was right from the first moment he saw you. He could truly trust you at your word.
“Seriously, any hour,” you smirked one last time before your hand offered a brief wave and you disappeared through the doorway, out into the hall.
It should have been simple.
He knew where he stood when it came to selling his story for entertainment, he knew it was wrong and he knew he wanted nothing to do with any reporter. Yet, your card stayed twirling in his hand for longer than it should have, and instead of it finding it’s way to the bottom of his wastebin, it found a safe home in the top drawer of his desk.
For a rainy day. He told himself, he never knew when he might need a trustworthy reporter...
He found his answer at the end of that week.
Work stress was nothing new to him, but with that piled on top of the boredom that came with reading essays and the combined stress of trying to limit his drinking and stay a non-smoker, he was sinking. He hadn’t had a drink all week, he was being good, like he promised his doctor but... but fuck, he needed one now.
But instead of finding a whisky bottle in the first desk drawer he opened, he found your business card.
It should have been simple. The problem was that Javier Peña had never been very good at simple.
You sounded positively exhausted as you picked up on the other end with a practiced repetition of your last name and position at the paper, but as he reintroduced himself, the harsh cut of your words seemed to roll back on your tongue as the same smug disposition you wore on your face carried through the phone.
“I knew you’d call...”
His laugh was as exhausted as yours was, and even as every fiber of his rational mind was screaming that he was making a mistake, he licked over his bottom lip, reclined in his desk chair and kept talking. “Is it out of line to ask you out for a drink?”
There was a brief moment of silence as the rustling of your notepads and papers in the background stopped, and he truly feared he was overstepping the professional boundary you had approached him with.
“Only if I let you buy mine for me,” you shot back, wearing a smirk on your lips that he could hear through the phone. “Meet me at sixth and Congress in twenty minutes?”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
It was a mistake, but even knowing that, he stood up from his desk, loosened his tie and undid the first few buttons of his shirt before heading out to meet you.
summary: you are a journalist writing an article on Hawks and you’re in desperate need of information, but your search for a lead becomes dangerous.
words: 2.2k
warnings: none
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4
January 2nd
A new year, new job, and new goal. You’d recently graduated college, being quirkless it was the best option for you, but you had your heart set on being a journalist. Yeah, you couldn’t be a Hero, but there was nothing stopping you from being a part of their world.
Being hired at Juzo News was an insane achievement for someone so young and fresh into the business. Writing columns every week about who’s Hero suit was the best, wasn’t really your dream job, but it paid the rent.
After moving out of the crappy college dorms, you’d set up base in Fukuoka, Kyushu. It wasn’t fancy like you’d imagined, but it was still a nice city. You quickly came to realise that it was also one of the most annoying Hero’s turf. Most annoying in your opinion anyway. He was arrogant, loud and full of himself.
January 27th
You were stood outside your apartment, waiting for a delivery of new furniture, when a gust of wind toppled you over and into a dirty puddle. All you saw was a flash of red and heard a meagre “Sorry! That skirt didn’t suit you anyway!” being shouted your way. Turning your head just in time to see the blond haired Pro Hero waving at you while running backwards after a criminal.
At that time, you had no idea who that was, or why they’d been so careless and rude. After a short Google session, you found a minimal amount of information on him. “Pro Hero Hawks” was the title of the article, there was a blurry picture of him attached and a short physical description.
There was no information about who he was, or anything other than his looks and his quirk. You’d found your break out scoop.
February 4th
You presented your proposal to your boss, she was just as excited as you are at the prospect of gaining some insight into Hawks. “You have 2 months!” she warned you “2 months, if you have no leads by then, you’re off the case.” she also said that she still wanted your columns to be written.
Diving head first into your new project, you set out to find everything there is to know about this man. Where he lived, what he ate, what he did for hobbies, his relationships. Anything you could get would be a lead, and then you’d be given more time.
February 5th
You wandered around the streets interviewing anyone and everyone you came into contact with, asking if they had an experience with the winged-hero and for them to tell their story.
A lot of people said they hadn’t, one little boy had an encounter but his testimony was a mixture of ‘pew’ and ‘woosh’ noises. Not a lot to go on. It wasn’t until you decided to take a break in the local park, were you able to find a viable lead.
Slumping down on the park bench you wiped your brow and scanned through the various notes you’d taken and rearranging the blurry photo you’d printed off, none of which held any worth. “That’s young Keigo!” an elderly man who had been peering over your notes behind you.
You turned yourself around to see where the voice had come from, “You know him?” you asked him, he smiled and sat down on the bench next to you so he could see your notes more clearly. “Do I know him?! He’s the sweetest boy!” the old man exclaimed, handing the photo back to you.
“So you’ve met him?” you asked, trying to prod a little without coming across like a complete stalker. “Yeah, we’re neighbours! He helps me with the groceries every Wednesday.” he smiled “He does that thing with his feathers, and carries the bags for me!” he continued still smiling.
“I don’t like that fire guy he hangs around with a lot though. I see him around the apartment hall ways, Endeavour I think his name is - unpleasant fellow.”. That was your first lead.
February 13th
This was the first press conference that you’d managed to snag an invite to, rumours were that Endeavour was going to be there. You had to interview him about Hawks, you planned to record the encounter and then you could analyse his reactions later, even if he didn’t say anything his expression would hopefully give you some information.
You sat down in the front row, there were a lot of people with huge cameras and boom microphones, you felt very out of your depth; but you were here at least.
When Endeavour made an appearance, the press went wild, shouting questions and begging for him to look their direction, it astounded you that people could act like such animals.
You were trying to concentrate but your eyes kept glazing over, until you heard another female reporter ask “Who is the young Hero, the one with the wings, that you’ve been seen with?” this instantly snapped you back into reality, you listened eagerly for his response.
“Hawks? He’s just another Hero!” was all he said, but that wasn’t enough for this reporter “Is he your sidekick? Or your assistant? Who is he to you?” they fired back. Endeavour seemed shocked at their rapid questioning, “My sidekick? God no, he has his own agency for Christ sake”. Another lead.
After the conference you’d spread out everything you knew to be fact about Hawks, so far you knew a little bit more detail about his quirk, his first name, and that he had his own agency. Not a lot to go on, considering you’d been at this for a week already.
You mapped out a plan, on Tuesday (the 18th) you’d try to find the agency and see if you can have a private meeting with him. That would give you the Monday to try and get a pass from your boss to do so. That would be the hard part.
The more you looked into this guy, the more interested you were, not just because of work.
February 17th
You begged and begged and begged your boss, but the answer was no. “I’m sorry Y/N, but I can’t organise that in such a short amount of time!” she explained. Twitching your foot with annoyance you tried one last time “Is there nothing you can do? Like nothing at all?”, “I can talk to his secretary and try to arrange something, but these agencies are difficult and take a long time to respond.” she answered.
Sighing deeply, you rubbed your hand over your face, your article was time sensitive and you needed things to move quickly. “I’ll call them today, and let you know,” your boss smiled at you, she knew how passionate you were and wanted to help. “Thank you,” was all you said before rushing out the door.
Lord you needed a coffee. You’d been researching this case for 12 days, almost half a month, and a quarter of the way through your deadline.
You walked into the closest Starbucks, ordered your drink and sat yourself down in the corner. Propping your laptop up on the table, you delved back into your research, trying to find anything that could give you a clue as to who this guy was.
A few hours passed but you hadn’t noticed, it was summer so luckily it was still light outside. “Vanilla Latte for Hawks!” you heard being shouted from the counter, instantly you perked your head up towards the voice. There he was, reaching over the counter to get his coffee.
He was wearing his tanned bomber jacket and matching trousers, something that caught your eye though, was that his wings had shrunk in size. They still protruded from his back abnormally, but they weren’t as prominent.
“So, he can make them smaller?” you thought to yourself, quickly typing that down onto your notes, as soon as you pressed the last key you glanced back up again, hoping to notice something else that could help you.
Your eyes locked onto his, he was heading towards the exit, but you had obviously caught his eye too. He didn’t break line of sight, something you were taken a-back by, his whole aura dripped with over-confidence.
His eye line drifted downwards and then back up to your face again, his mouth turned into a sideways smirk - he was checking you out. You didn’t have enough time to react before he was out the door and gone from your sight.
Damn it, you had a clear opportunity for an interview, and you missed it. At least you knew his eyes were golden and his type of coffee.
February 18th
Going into work with false hope was a bad idea. You walked into your bosses office full of energy, praying that she’d heard back from Hawks’ Agency and that you were allowed to go there today.
There was no such luck, “I told you, it takes a while to get that sort of access!” your boss repeated herself again “How much do you actually have on the guy anyway?” she was the one to be asking the questions now. “I have, some stuff..” you weren’t entirely lying to her.
“How much? If you’re just chasing dead leads, is there any point you carrying on with the story?” she asked flatly, “No! I’m on to something!” you insisted “There is nothing about him online or anywhere for that matter - trust me I’ve looked,” you huffed, getting frustrated with yourself “If we’re the ones to publish literally anything about him, it would be amazing for us!” you tried to explain.
“I know, I know!” your boss said, “I just don’t want you burning yourself out over this!” she seemed concerned, you waved away her words and left her office. Clearly you were going to have to find another way to get your story.
Walking back into your apartment after a long day of researching and turning up nothing felt shameful, you felt like you weren’t allowed rest until you’d found at least something.
You took a shower and laid in bed, you had your laptop full of notes to the side of you and were flicking through the news channels, just at the chance that something popped up. Maybe your boss was right, maybe this case was driving you crazy.
You were acting like a stalker. Eventually exhaustion overtook you, and you fell into a peaceful sleep.
February 19th
Awaking at the lovely hour of 6am, you felt the morning light touch your face through the curtains, as you stirred, you cursed yourself for leaving the window open.
Pulling the window shut, you noticed that your laptop and notes were neatly placed onto your window-side desk. You cocked your head in confusion, you could have sworn that you’d left them on the bed.
Oh well, you must have put them away while you were half asleep and not remembered it.
You managed to get into the office abnormally early, today you had to focus on your columns, as much as you hated to do them it was still your job at the end of the day.
While going through what fabrics Mt Lady has been using for her new hero suit, you were keeping an eye on your boss’ office, she was on the phone a lot today but as soon as she was free you were bolting for it.
Poking your head around her door with a “Hey!” you gave her a sugar wouldn’t melt smile, “Y/N!” she exclaimed, almost spilling her coffee on herself, you’d obviously made her jump.
“Before you ask, no I haven’t heard anything back from the agency” she sipped her drink, you groaned in annoyance “How long does it take these people to read their emails?” you complained, “However long they want, they are a hero agency.” your boss mumbled.
“I’ll have to find another angle!” you thought aloud, earning a nod from your boss, you smiled said a quick goodbye and carried on with your work, you only had a few more topics to cover.
You were allowed to leave early today, considering you’d started work three hours before you were supposed to, so you left just after lunch time. The walk back to your apartment was done entirely in your head, you felt as though you were turning every which way to try and find more information.
There was no reason to say that when you got into the agency that you would even talk to Hawks, or that he would even answer any of your questions, what questions would you even ask?
As soon as you opened the door to your apartment, you saw the state that you’d left it in, clothes were strewn about the place, your bed was unmade and the dishes really needed doing.
You needed to clean before you did anything else.
Starting with the clothes, you put all the dirty ones into your washing basket, hanging up all the clean clothes too. You could see a few stray socks underneath the bed so you dived under there for them.
As you bent down to reach under, you noticed something unusual, there was a red feather looking directly at you. You picked it up and examined it, it wasn’t small, it was bigger than your hand.
Glancing around the room, you started to search for other signs of life, you knew exactly who this feather belonged to, what you didn’t know was why it was in your apartment - let alone, why was it in your bedroom.
