“ ᴏʜ, ɢᴏʟʟʏ ! you really do have to work on these trust issues of yours, detective morgan. ” features work to forge a portrait of irreproachability, your shackled wrists elevated to sit adjacent to your cheeks as though the action would exonerate you further. * YOUR ARROGANCE IS STIFLING. for once, you feel at liberty to exude a boldness that had long been beaten out of you. but you are exhilarated; to be known, to be seen. 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍. so long had the shadows consumed your nightfall, setting quakes inside your palms that never seemed to quite 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 from the day the funding fell through. no longer were you the faceless edward nashton, a forgotten little boy left behind to starve astride the rat-riddled bed spreads; unwanted, unadopted, unloved. no one gave you a chance. now they simply had no choice. RIDDLE ME THIS ! what belongs to you but others will use it? a name. (and everyone would soon know yours.)
a wry sort of smile pushes apple-cheeks into semi-plumpness, skin pinched with a colour prompted by the fierce warmth of the interrogation room’s all-seeing floodlights. * THAT, and the thrilling notion of observation; you had spent too long isolated that you cannot help but feel hot with complete and total delirium, your body enlivened from being 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑, even though it is not quite the source of attention that you so desperately craved... “ why would i leave? everything i need, i have right here. ”
