𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰 | 𝔣. 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔶

6.

One of Elin's least favourite parts of the job was the walk home. Hiding in the shadows out of a sense of paranoia and climbing over the utility pole that gave Hell a run for its money. It was never extremely fun. Not even to mention the fact that she often had blood stained hands, when she didn't have a chance to wash them, that couldn't stain her clothes or face without a need to wash them and confused questions from her roommates. However, usually, she had suitable clothing, comfortable and warm but also flexible for when it needed to be.

Wearing a tight, black dress, her nude bag hanging from her shoulders and black boots, were as bad without any flexibility in them, was her least favourite. Luckily, Cameron had gifted her a pair of black tights to cover up and old runners that once belonged to David Selwyn. The bag was stuck to her shoulder with no solution.

Trailing over the path she had become so familiar with over the years, her mind traced back to her first murder. It was still so freshly engraved in her mind; forever standing out among the rest of a bad bunch.

***

Cameron had talked her into it originally. She had had little experience with knives, swords or guns. It was beaten into her, over and over and over again until she was covered with purple bruises and a walking zombie with the tiredness fighting all night brought her.

What was only days felt like months. She excused to Ambroos and Skylar that was trying to go off coffee, a reasonable excuse for her empty gaze and numbed brain. The bruises were covered with heavy layers of concealer or simply sleeves. She had never known a tiredness like it, never in her life had she felt so drained.

But the time frame was slim and by the time Sunday arrived, she had made improvements in her form, in her blade-wielding. Whether the improvement was enough was another question entirely. The answer was likely no but Cameron simply avoided answering any time she was asked.

Her limbs ached as she climbed, blending in with the shadows like an artist blended colours with a paintbrush. It was practically impossible to see anything, but to Elin, the shadows spoke to her. They guided her along the path she had in mind, an address engraved into her mind.

Adrenaline pushed through her, giving her an extra energy to replace the energy sleep usually brought her, stolen by exhaustion. Her eyes were bruised with eyebags, actual bruises scattering across her arms, legs, back, stomach and everywhere in between. They ached and creaked, like a rusted machine, but she pushed on anyways.

Her arms creeped with goosebumps, aware of the cold with the thin sleeves of her t-shirt. Even in the Autumn, it was too frosty for a t-shirt but she had more pressing questions awaiting her only a few windows away.

The candle flickered on the inside, luring her into the house that wouldn't be a home by night's end. The window was naively left open, teasing the darkness, daring it to enter. She took the dare with pride.

It was dimly lit, despite the candle's presence, and tightly compressed, like the home of a hobbit. The walls were cracking and crumbling, poorly maintained by the looks of the dusty floors and spider webs as well. An empty wooden desk sat in front of the window, ink stains splattered against half-written parchment and several broken quills scattered over the surface. As for the rest of the room, it was crowded and clammed with all sorts of research material; books lay open, sheets and files flung in every other direction. It was a mess to overcome; not a sign of any sane person.

Despite her usual light steps that had taken her years of practice and many unfortunate situations, the floorboards still creaked with old age. Elin moved like a sly fox, creeping along and easing her way across the small room.