the world is a dangerous place. it leaves imprints, footsteps, track-marks left in gutted veins. open mouths, turnpikes, throughways that tunnel-vision towards dead ends. a place where anything can happen— and everything is a risk. suburban streets only help so much. (housed in this neighborhood lies a killer, a criminal, a keyboard savant with moral codes to spare. neighborhood watch would be horrified. mari can't find it in her to care.) enclosed in these walls, locked behind doors, padded behind a computer screen, it feels safe. secure. something close to stability, or something that mimics it. —at least, until recently.
MICKEY BARNES [@print17] : " take your time ( … ) im not going anywhere. "
knocking on her door, muffled through the wood, huddled close enough to the peep-hole for her to see the outline of his jaw, a stranger shows his face. hopes for the best. pleads, openly, for a second chance at life. if she was more sympathetic, less apathy-inclined, perhaps she'd have cracked open the door long before this. instead, her voice carries through the layers between them. "tell me your full name." her hands wring into the worn fabric of her hoodie, before one palm clasps around the doorknob. awaiting a fate that may not come, with cold feet circling the curve of the entrance. "and tell me the charge you caught in 2018." a beat. "otherwise, fu — fuck off."
