Rosalie Kasten is out of luck and out of time. For the last two years, she's been living on borrowed time. After her involvement with the death of Edwin Pierce - Alexander Pierce's son - it's only a matter of time before Hydra comes for her.
James...
𝚨𝐬 𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, mysteries bore me. So, although neither Rosalie nor James would be aware of this for a good few months, I do feel compelled to tell you of it. Omitting it would be too close to lying for me. And I do not lie.
There was nothing unusual with Brock Rumlow. I know how many people he took. The way I get to know most people is through the people they take. Kill. Murder. I have come to realise how many descriptions there are for taking a life. Therefore, I prefer take. It's simpler.
Most people never grasp my attention, but some faces become hard to forget the more you meet them. The face of Brock Rumlow was one of those. My steps were always made through dark red pools, wading through blood as I followed in his trail of dissevered limbs, beaten faces, and shreds of skin.
It was in a hospital bed the last time I saw him. I remember it because of one mention. There were other men in the room, and they were talking about a photo, passing it around until it landed in the hands of the man with glasses and light-brown hair.
"Sir, is it her?" One of the people in a suit asks, and the man with glasses nods.
"Yes. That's Rosalie Kasten," Alexander Pierce replies, "... did Fisk want anything else with him." He nods towards Rumlow, and one of the other men steps forward.
"No, sir. Mr Fisk got what he wanted."
"Good. Unplug him and call Creed, we need someone on Kasten immediately."
"Sir?" The man carefully asks and glances at the comatose man.
Alexander Pierce merely raises an eyebrow, and nothing else is needed.
The light became dark as I picked up Brock Rumlow. Dark greys mixing with dark reds, and it was awfully fitting. Not many lights in hospitals are so dark. It made an impression. Even the souls of people like him have indents. Decadent holes, echoing the lack of remorse they carried with them throughout their lives.
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Rosalie glances up at the bookshelf. It's rather dumb that she's surprised after seeing how much he truly reads. The whole length of two walls in the living room is covered in books of all shapes and sizes. It's the only proper decoration James has in this entire place. Her fingers trail over the spines of the books, and she picks out a few. Most of them are sci-fi or fantasy. No non-fiction.
