Ink.

Worry

The searing pain in my neck alerts me.

"For f*ck sake." I grumble, sitting up.

I try to steady myself and concentrate but all my mind wants to do is to carry on swimming in the pool of unconciousness. What the hell had happened in order for me to appear in this state?

Sh*t. Where's my blade?

I fumble again for the sharply serated knife that usually locates itself in my right hand side pocket. Nothing.

"Sh*t!" I yell in frustration.

Luckily I begin to feel something as I delve deeper into the pocket but it doesn't feel like my trusty pocket blade. I don't recall putting paper in my pocket. Idly uncrumpling the sheet of paper, I swear at the sudden message before me.

Blades are dangerous in the hands of idiots.

"What the he- ahhh" I wince in pain. "Sh*t."

What kind of bitch would do this to Isabelle Norton Karter? More importantly, what kind of bitch would dare do this to Isabelle Norton Karter? Whoever it is, they have guts. Great guts. Exactly what I don't need right now.

"Where the f*ck am I?!" I scream out into the night.

That's when I begin to really take in my surroundings. I'm laying on a patch of soggy grass around the corner from my house. More importantly I was outside one of the angency's secret bases however it would be closed up by now as Nathen had told me it was to be used for other things.

Gathering myself together, I manage to swing my body up into a sitting postion before scrambling up onto my feet. So much for looking sexy. My hair looks like it's been dragged through a hedge backwards.

Pissed off by the whole scenario, I hobble back to my house with the scrumpled up note solid in my fist. At least Nathen's out.

"Oh my god!" I let out a relaxed sigh of relief as my buttocks lands on the squishy sofa cushions.

After my affair with the cushions, I get bored. Constantly doing nothing worries me and when I'm worried it's not good. It means I'm not stable. If not stable I am unable- it all links.

However the biggest nag in my brain which is keeping me from my sleep is that note. That bloody note.

Since when have I been so held up about a stupid piece of crappy paper? Somebody just got in my way, so what? Doesn't mean they will again. But they might; that's the thing. They might.

"F*ck it."

I dash upstairs, snatching up the note from the side table, and open up my laptop. How to analyze one's handwriting. Perfect. It's really amazing what websites you find on the internet these days. People just make it too easy.

So usually this is the style in which a girl would write. Rather long and pointy or round and curvy whereas a male would have small, crooked lettering. This is all steriotyped, obviously, but if it's all I've got then I'm going with it.

The writing hasn't been scrawled out onto the paper as if written in a rush. Instead, it is rounded and curvy with a microscopic swirl ontop of the i in the word idiots.

So she's a girl. Bet she enjoyed taking me down.

Just then it strikes me. FINGER PRINTS! IT WILL HAVE BLOODY FINGERPRINTS ON IT!

I literally dance with glee before I eagily rip open my finger print kit, supplying me with special chemicals and inks in which to detect the bitch.

"Haha yes!" I punch the air in triumph. "Bingo."

Now comes the near impossible; I have the print but I need the agency's high tech computors in order to figure out who it is. Great.

Well that would have to wait but in the meantime, I can plan out what I will do to the bitch once I get a hold of her. I won't kill her, that would be murder. Just make her see who's boss. And in this case, I am.

As I go to sleep that night I can't help but to smile to myself.

"Sh*t!" I wake up with a start in the middle of the night. "I left my bike!"