#garage doors in Hills District

[sydneygaragedoors01]

Garage Doors Hills District: Exceptional Solutions by Sydney Garage Doors

When it comes to enhancing your home's curb appeal, security, and functionality, garage doors in Hills District are an essential component. Sydney Garage Doors is a trusted provider of top-quality garage door solutions, offering a wide range of designs and features to suit your needs.

Why Choose Sydney Garage Doors?

Sydney Garage Doors is known for its commitment to quality and customer satisfaction. Our expert team ensures that every garage door we install in the Hills District meets the highest standards of durability, aesthetics, and performance. Here’s why homeowners in the Hills District trust us:

Diverse Designs: Whether you prefer modern, traditional, or custom designs, we offer a wide variety of options to complement your home's architecture.

Premium Materials: Our garage doors are made from durable materials such as steel, wood, and aluminum, ensuring longevity and resistance to wear and tear.

Professional Installation: Our skilled technicians ensure seamless installation, guaranteeing your garage door operates smoothly and safely.

Popular Types of Garage Doors for Hills District Homes

Sectional Garage Doors: These are versatile and popular among homeowners for their space-saving design and ease of use.

Roller Garage Doors: Ideal for compact spaces, these doors roll up neatly into a drum above the opening.

Tilt Garage Doors: These single-panel doors are perfect for homes with a unique architectural style.

Custom Garage Doors: For a truly personalized look, Sydney Garage Doors offers custom designs tailored to your preferences.

Benefits of Upgrading Your Garage Doors in Hills District

Enhanced Curb Appeal: A stylish garage door can significantly improve the overall appearance of your home.

Improved Security: Modern garage doors are equipped with advanced locking mechanisms, providing enhanced security for your property.

Increased Property Value: High-quality garage doors add value to your home, making it more attractive to potential buyers.

Energy Efficiency: Insulated garage doors help regulate indoor temperatures, reducing energy costs.

Sydney Garage Doors: Your Local Experts

At Sydney Garage Doors, we pride ourselves on being the go-to experts for garage doors in Hills District. We understand the unique needs of the local community and strive to provide tailored solutions that exceed expectations.

Our team is equipped with the latest tools and techniques to handle everything from installation to repairs and maintenance. Whether you need a sleek, modern design or a traditional garage door, we ensure the perfect fit for your home.

Maintenance Tips for Longevity

To keep your garage door in excellent condition, follow these simple maintenance tips:

Regular Cleaning: Remove dirt and debris to maintain the door's appearance and functionality.

Lubrication: Keep the moving parts well-lubricated to ensure smooth operation.

Inspection: Check for signs of wear and tear, such as loose hinges or frayed cables, and address issues promptly.

Professional Servicing: Schedule routine maintenance with Sydney Garage Doors to extend the lifespan of your door.

Conclusion

Investing in high-quality garage doors in Hills District is a smart decision for any homeowner. With Sydney Garage Doors, you can expect superior craftsmanship, exceptional customer service, and a wide range of options to enhance your property.

Whether you're upgrading an existing door or installing a new one, Sydney Garage Doors is here to help you achieve the perfect balance of style, security, and functionality. Transform your home's exterior today with our expertly crafted garage doors!

[sims-half-crazy]

Oasis Springs invited several different towns to their once-dying town to highlight the changes they'd made and open a discussion about what could be done to help other municipalities facing similar problems. Colleen jumped at the opportunity to outshine her rival, Izumi Ota, and to see some of the country. Oasis Springs was located in the Simerican southwest and Colleen was eager to expand her horizons. Colleen very much enjoyed touring the original town, which had been deemed a historic place and turned into a large walking-only area. Traffic was only allowed in during certain times and it greatly improved the cleanliness of the area.

They also toured an early 20th-century general store with an abandoned garage next door. The town had petitioned to tear the buildings down but the neighborhood it was located in was fighting the petition. The visit also included a stop at a local community pool that had been donated by a developer who built a small subdivision just outside of the main thoroughfare. Colleen had asked many questions about that - Could something like this be worked out in Tinefell Bay? A small Bed & Breakfast was next. The town was encouraging small businesses to open up in town as a way to help keep the momentum going. They were putting a lot of effort into their tourism outreach.

The tour then moved onto the hilltop overlooking the whole town, Snob Hill as the locals called it. It was a large shopping district with mixed-use space on the floors above the retail level. Construction was just wrapping up and the town was going to hold a large grand opening ceremony next year. Across from that monolith was an upscale movie theater and cafe. The hope was that this would become a destination for the surrounding area to visit, while those who could afford it would live in the apartments above and enjoy breathtaking views of the vistas the desert had to offer.

[boricuacherry-blog]

By the time Marvin decided to move to Los Angeles, he was fairly familiar with the sprawling city. Not familiar enough, however, to know exactly where to settle down. Besides, he was with Anna and little Marvin, who at eight years of age, wasn't so little anymore. As long as the relationship with Anna wasn't as solid as it once was, they thought it would be best to live for a time with Anna's sister, Gwen, in her Beverly Hills home on Benedict Canyon Drive.

Marvin was away from Benedict Canyon for days at a time, looking at apartments for himself as well as for studio space where he could work again. His frequent absences led to more arguments with Anna.

Within the next few months Marvin found everything he was looking for, and more. He took a small apartment in Culver City. He designed and built his own recording studio on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, facilities he intended to rent out for income, and made a number of investments, which included ten thousand dollars to his friend Wally Amos, in exchange for a percentage of his Famous Amos Cookies company. He also started accumulating a fleet of fancy cars. Eventually he would have 14, two for each day of the week. Pretty good for someone who had never had a driver's license.

Most of Marvin's spending spree was handled through his newly formed Right On Productions. His biggest investment was the English Tudor-style home he bought for Mother and Father, on Gramercy Place, in the Crenshaw district of Los Angeles. The property was huge - it was actually two houses, the big house and the guest house next door - all of which was surrounded by a gated privacy wall.

The two-story main house had eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, a family room, living room, formal dining room, and an enormous kitchen where Mother would spend most of her time. The house next door looked much the same, only on a smaller scale. The lower floor was a garage; upstairs there was a spacious two-bedroom apartment.

When Marvin called from California to describe the property and tell us to get packed, Mother had a few words for him - that is, once she calmed down. 'Marvin, I know you want to do all these wonderful things for us,' she said, 'and I know you're making good money, but be careful, honey.' 'Don't worry, Mother,' he said. 'I'm doing good, real good.'

-Frankie Gay

[autogatecentreau]

Garage Door Repairs Hills District

These are predominantly motor related issues and once you hire us we will deliver prompt and perfect garage door motor repair in Sydney. At times, the motor is knocked out of order beyond repair. In that case, our technicians will come up with garage door motor replacement in Sydney. While doing so, we will use the genuine counter parts of the faulty spare parts. This ensures your garage door does not face any functionality issue.

[beardedmrbean]

(KRON) — Prosecutors filed criminal charges against a U.S. Marine and retired East Bay police officer who allegedly shot his wife, barricaded himself inside his Pleasant Hill home for three days, prompted a neighborhood-wide shelter-in-place order, and shot at SWAT team vehicles.

Chunliam Nai Saechao, 40, is being held without bail in Martinez Detention Facility. On Wednesday, the Contra Costa District Attorney’s Office charged him with nine felony counts, including attempted murder of police officers, assault with a firearm, and injuring a spouse.

Saechao served in the United States Marine Corps before he joined the Pittsburg Police Department in 2007. He rose through the ranks and received awards as a detective.

When he retired from the police force in 2022, the Pittsburg Police Department wrote on Instagram, “Detective Saechao has been a valued member of the Investigations Division where he was primarily responsible for Domestic Violence Investigations.”

Saechao is now accused with committing a domestic violence-related crime.

The District Attorney’s Office said he “may have suffered a mental health episode” last week when he opened fire on his wife at their home on Cleopatra Drive. Saechao “shot at his wife while she was trying to gain entrance to their residence,” prosecutors wrote.

The wife was shot through a locked garage door around 7 p.m. on December 7. She was treated at a hospital for a non-life-threatening gunshot wound.

Meanwhile, a police standoff ensued back at the Cleopatra Drive house and neighbors were evacuated. The ex-cop refused to communicate with a police crisis negotiation team.

Pleasant Hill Police Chief Scott Vermillion ordered his SWAT team to disengage and leave the house at 2 a.m. on December 8 for a “cooling off” period. The shelter-in-place was also lifted for 15 hours. Saechao, who has expert military training in firearms and combat, remained inside his house with an assault rifle.

Instead of calming down, the mentally unstable Marine became even more unstable, investigators said.

Vermillion said he was the decision-maker throughout the tense, multi-day incident. The police chief told reporters, “Our adversary that night had military combat training. We did not believe he presented an immediate threat to the community. I decided that the presence of a SWAT team could have made things worse, so I ordered them to tactically disengage.”

Vermillion continued, “I believed that there would be a cooling off period, and that he would not escalate. He did the opposite. His mental health and social media posts elevated.”

Saechao wrote a flurry of strange tweets on X throughout the first standoff, including videos he shot through the windows recording police officers outside.

One tweet stated, “Come try to kill me if you dare I’ll kill you back.” Another tweet wrote, “I’m kinda over it you might as well kill me so I don’t have to try to help you guys anymore I know where I’m going next do you?” Another tweet stated, “And just so you know I am perfectly sane.”

The SWAT team was re-deployed back to the house after sunset on December 8. Officers attempted to negotiate with Saechao, and he fired dozens of rounds at armored SWAT vehicles, police said. Vermillion estimates that Saechao stuck the police car around 30 times using an assault rifle and shotgun.

“Mr. Saechao shot at officers who were in the process of evacuating residents from nearby homes. Bullets also struck a police vehicle during the evacuation, which had two officers inside. The officers inside the vehicle did not sustain any injuries,” the DA’s Office wrote.

Finally, on December 9, Saechao walked out of his house, with his hands up, and a gun on his hip, police said. According to Vermillion, Saechao wanted officers to shoot him. He was taken into custody by FBI agents and the SWAT team.

The police chief told reporters, “I do regret that our community, and especially the Sherman Acres neighborhood experienced a major disruption caused by this prolonged and serious event.”

Saechao will make his first court appearance on Thursday afternoon in Martinez.

[gemmabussell85]

Garage Door Repairs Hills District

For all types of garage door repairs Hills distrist and Sydney wide, call Metro Garage Services on 0456 560 404 or log on to know more.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

Residential Architecture in Piltover

Piltover City is a collection of hundreds of years of the nation’s history, in practical terms as much as in reference to the seasons of architectural style. Different wards and tiers of the city will have unique facets; while the city might be unified in practical civic pieces like street lamps, tram lines, sun-catchers and green spaces, segments of the city might prefer a different colour stone, or paint their facades differently to the one across the park, or be designed with a different school of thought, and so on. 

I would like to discuss, in this post, the residential areas of Piltover City. My particular focus was originally on the ‘interlocks’ because I wanted to display Caitlyn’s living space as I have envisioned it. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realised Piltover only has a limited amount of uniformity when it comes to construction. Piltover City, though small, has the freedom and finance and history unlike any other, which has resulted in expansion, reconstruction, and a constant development of variations of artistic style.

Piltover City is built on a hill. They have built up, with concrete and arches, towers and tiers. They have broad streets with a focus on trams and pedestrian movement. While some of the higher tiers might have room for single-family homes with gardens and garages, most if not all residential buildings in Piltover are in the apartment style. There is not enough space to build anything sprawling, so this is practical, but they certainly know how to make it beautiful and ecologically-sound. Without further ado: residential architecture in Piltover!

Apartments in the older parts of Piltover might follow a more classic design, such as those near Heroes Walk and other monuments (like this!). Some districts might mimic the classic style without all the frou-frou extras (like this), keeping the vibe of a nice place to live while being more in-tune with what would likely be the more working-class part of town. 

The main signature of the interlock, however, is that it is very much is true to its name: it interlocks, architecturally, with the buildings either side of it, or perhaps those behind and in front. These close-packed apartments sharing walls with neighbours would lessen the amount of land needed to host a large population, and me a more efficient use of space and materials. As I have previously mentioned, Piltover has a history of building into walls, utilising previous structures as the basis for new construction, so the interlock was the next logical design step.

Interlocks come in different styles. I see something like this or this being a good example of an interlock front door situation for Faulkner Street: stairs leading to the doors, bay windows, and stone. In some parts of town there might be an upstairs and a downstairs, separated by garden railings (as seen here), or perhaps there could be something like the New York brownstones, with an entry hall past a main entryway door. 

However, for the most part, interlocks would be two-to-three stories tall, narrow, and space efficient. Piltover’s building materials would be largely stone, with facades of metal and glass, rendering it much more fire-safe than timber. They are designed to last, to be a permanent and lasting fixture in Piltover City’s skyline. Interlocks and other apartments are designed to have a place that feels like a proper, unchanging place to call home. They would have heating and running water. Some of the interlocks built into the stone of the hill and/or walls of the old city might share chimney flues and thus have access to fireplaces.

But it would be very unusual for homes in Piltover to be outfitted with kitchens. Most have only a few appliances (mostly kettles and small iceboxes), and that would be enough. Piltover law and fire-safety code would see that there would be additional expenses for ovens and stovetops. Most people who live in apartments and interlocks would choose to go to any of the eateries in the city. Food is cheap and plentiful in Piltover, after all. The ground floors of many apartments would be stores and places of business, including restaurants and eateries; if one was hungry, one could just go downstairs for an eat-in or takeaway meal. (This particular design decision comes from not only the design of suburbs where I lived in Australia and a visit to Paris, but also to the Roman insulae). Interlocks might not have a ‘ground floor’ for businesses to establish themselves, but the corner units - with additional space and visibility - might have a split-level situation: low floor business, upper floor the living space of the business’ owners.

Some streets, like Faulkner Street, are strictly residential. This could be due to zoning laws, or the composition of the material built upon. Areas of the city which are strictly residential are made sure to have amenities like laundromats, eateries, general stores, and the like, close by. No-one is to be isolated; Piltover has a focus on the health and wellbeing of its community. Certain areas in the interlock districts might have sub-level parking, though personal automobiles are rare. The sub-level parking would more be used for the hansom carriages and automaton-horses that pull them, as well as rest and repair stations for the tram business. Owning your own place to park is expensive, as it takes up space that should be used by the community. Trams are the preferred mode of travel within Piltover City, with trains servicing passage to the outer villages.

Caitlyn lives in 23B Faulkner Street. Here is, roughly, my design for her two-story interlock (please pardon the clipping, the carpets hid the doors for some reason).

On the first floor is an entryway into a narrow area, where Caitlyn has her coat-rack, and two cupboards for the storage of coats, shoes and hats. The floor is smooth-textured slate, with a striated-pattern rug. There is also a small door that connects to the shared basement-entry landing with 23A Faulkner street, though this door is mostly kept shut and locked. Caitlyn prefers to park below, then walk up to the street and enter from her home’s main entrance.

A small dense rug sits in the entryway to her open-plan kitchen and living room. Yes, Caitlyn’s apartment has a small kitchen, which would have been an expense to install and maintain, and likely results in Caitlyn paying a higher level of architectural tax every year. It is a risk to have a kitchen, but she is prepared to be responsible for it. There is a stovetop oven, a large icebox, cupboards and counters, a counter where she prepares her tea at one end and a drinks cabinet that holds her expensive whiskeys on the other. A long runner carpet prevents slipping. Broad bay windows provide ample light, so she can wash her dishes and watch the world go by, or draw the curtains as she sees fit. There is a small island counter with two chairs, usually where she sits to eat her meals. Inset in the middle of the living room is her stone fireplace, over which she has a broad hexscreen built into the wall. A dense shag-cartpet rug sits in the middle of the room, under her sofa (with its Freljordian rabbit pelt) and her coffee table. There are three bookshelves of varying sizes, holding her collected books, framed photographs and knick-knacks from her travels, and the space between has a long soft carpet. Under the wooden stairs is a small storage room, where she keeps things unsafe or inappropriate for display; the door is made of the same material as her gun-safe. The ground floor also boasts a sunroom that has Caitlyn’s piano, and another bookshelf with more personal books, and another of the dense rugs. There is also the guest room, with a double bed and an ensuite with a shower.  The stairs lead up to the second floor, with a balustraded landing that overlooks the living room.

A wooden balustrade provides support and protection from falls, while a long green runner provides the texture and anti-slip protection. The first room is the main bedroom, Caitlyn’s bedroom, with a long bookshelf on the facing wall, a wardrobe, a queen-sized bed, and a small nightstand, as well as a carpet (a different texture to the one downstairs). There is also a gun safe under the bed where Caitlyn keeps her rifle and her detective’s hat. There is an ensuite bathroom with a shower, and extra cupboards for first aid. There is also a pull-out rack for drying her hand-washed laundry (the rest is sent to Sally). With both this room and the downstairs ensuite, sinks are built into the tops of the toilets, so that there is no wasted water. At the end of the hall is Caitlyn’s home office, illuminated by skylight. There is a desk on the wall opposite the door, a collection of filing cabinets where she keeps records of personal projects, taxes, etc, and the main wall has - or had - Caitlyn’s pinboard of C-related clues and information, linked with red string. In the last five years, however, this space was more utilised in the tracking of social events and smaller-scale cases.

So there it is, Caitlyn’s Interlock and some background into residential architecture in Piltover. 

As a final honourable mention, please consider this illustration of 221B Baker Street as an idea for what a one-story interlock apartment (complete with fireplace access) might look like. The actual Sherlock Holmes Museum in London was smaller, narrower, and took up two stories, and definitely helped with my visualisation of what Caitlyn’s living space might be like, though my design for Faulkner Street was set before I visited.

[antoine-roquentin]

obliquely, this is in reference to how formerly working class bastions in the midwest that used to elect socialists now elect republicans. if we all gave up the theory that LGBT people are normal, we might once again go back to the days where we elected socialists across the country. thomas frank, what’s the matter with kansas:

But its periodic bouts of leftism were what really branded Kansas with the mark of the freak. Every part of the country in the nineteenth century had labor upheavals and protosocialist reform movements, of course. In Kansas, though, the radicals kept coming out on top. It was as though the blank landscape prompted dreams of a blank-slate society, a place where institutions might be remade as the human mind saw fit. Maps of the state from the 1880s show a hamlet (since vanished) called Radical City; in nearby Crawford County the town of Girard was home to the Appeal to Reason, a socialist newspaper whose circulation was in the hundreds of thousands. In that same town, in 1908, Eugene Debs gave a fiery speech accepting the Socialist Party’s nomination for president; in 1912 Debs actually carried Crawford County, one of four he won nationwide. (All were in the Midwest.) In 1910 Theodore Roosevelt signaled his own lurch to the left by traveling to Kansas and giving an inflammatory address in Osawatomie, the onetime home of John Brown.

The most famous freak-out of them all was Populism, the first of the great American leftist movements.* Populism tore through other states as well—wailing all across Texas, the South, and the West in the 1890s—but Kansas was the place that really distinguished itself by its enthusiasm. Driven to the brink of ruin by years of bad prices, debt, and deflation, the state’s farmers came together in huge meetings where homegrown troublemakers like Mary Elizabeth Lease exhorted them to “raise less corn and more hell.” The radicalized farmers marched through the small towns in day-long parades, raging against what they called the “money power.” And despite all the clamor, they still managed to take the state’s traditional Republican masters utterly by surprise in 1890, sweeping the small-town slickers out of office and ending the careers of many a career politician. In the decade that followed they elected Populist governors, Populist senators, Populist congressmen, Populist supreme court justices, Populistcity councils, and probably Populist dogcatchers, too; men of strong ideas, curious nicknames, and a colorful patois....

For a generation, Kansas has been the testing-ground for every experiment in morals, politics, and social life. Doubt of all existing institutions has been respectable. Nothing has been venerable or revered merely because it exists or has endured. Prohibition, female suffrage, fiat money, free silver, every incoherent and fantastic dream of social improvement and reform, every economic delusion that has bewildered the foggy brains of fanatics, every political fallacy nurtured by misfortune, poverty and failure, rejected elsewhere, has here found tolerance and advocacy.

Today the two myths are one. Kansas may be the land of averageness, but it is a freaky, militant, outraged averageness. Kansas today is a burned-over district of conservatism where the backlash propaganda has woven itself into the fabric of everyday life. People in suburban Kansas City vituperate against the sinful cosmopolitan elite of New York and Washington, D.C.; people in rural Kansas vituperate against the sinful cosmopolitan elite of Topeka and suburban Kansas City. Survivalist supply shops sprout in neighborhood strip-malls. People send Christmas cards urging their friends to look on the bright side of Islamic terrorism, since the Rapture is now clearly at hand.

Under the state’s simple blue flag are gathered today some of the most flamboyant cranks, conspiracists, and calamity howlers the Republic has ever seen. The Kansas school board draws the guffaws of the world for purging state science standards of references to evolution. Cities large and small across the state still hold out against water fluoridation, while one tiny hamlet takes the additional step of requiring firearms in every home. A prominent female politician expresses public doubts about the wisdom of women’s suffrage, while another pol proposes that the state sell off the Kansas Turnpike in order to solve its budget crisis. Impoverished inhabitants of the state’s most scenic area fight with fanatical determination to prevent a national park from opening up in their neighborhood, while the rails-to-trails program, regarded everywhere else in the union as a harmless scheme for family fun, is reviled in Kansas as an infernal design on the rights of property owners. Operation Rescue selects Wichita as the stage for its great offensive against abortion, calling down thirty thousand testifying fundamentalists on the city, witnessing and blocking traffic and chaining themselves to fences. A preacher from Topeka travels the nation advising Americans to love God’s holy hate, showing up wherever a gay person has been in the news to announce that “God Hates Fags.” Survivalists and secessionists dream of backyard confederacies out on the lone prairie; schismatic Catholics declare the pope himself to be insufficiently Catholic; Posses Comitatus hold imaginary legal proceedings, sternly prosecuting state officials for participating in actual legal proceedings; and homegrown terrorists swap conspiracy theories at a house in Dickinson County before screaming off to strike a blow against big government in Oklahoma City.

the problem with this simple story is that social liberalism actually grew in lockstep with an economic policy tailored to the poor. in the 70s, the most common place to get gender reassignment surgery was at a catholic hospital in small town colorado. in 2010, in response to deep opposition in the town, the practice was forced to move to california. the second most common place was at a baptist hospital in oklahoma city, where such surgery was viewed as routine until a number of religious leaders decided to oppose it in the 70s. at the same time, many other religious leaders spoke out in favour of the surgery, saying that it comported well with religious tenets.

likewise, colorado legalized abortion in 1967, as did states like kansas, missouri, georgia, and north and south carolina prior to roe v wade. today, these states are considered anti-abortion and anti-lgbt hotspots, yet prior to the late 70s, compassion for such people was viewed as paramount in the life of america’s christians. so what happened? it clearly wasn’t an emphasis on the social aspects of poor american lives that shifted the political arena in favour of religious conservatism. rather, as thomas frank points out in the same book:

Nobody mows their own lawn in Mission Hills anymore, and only a foot soldier in its armies of gardeners would park a Pontiac there. The doctors who lived near us in the seventies have pretty much been gentrified out, their places taken by the bankers and brokers and CEOs who have lapped them repeatedly on the racetrack of status and income. Every time I paid Mission Hills a visit during the nineties, it seemed another of the more modest houses in our neighborhood had been torn down and replaced by a much larger edifice, a three-story stone chateau, say, bristling with turrets and porches and dormers and gazebos and a three-car garage. The dark old palaces from the twenties sprouted spiffy new slate roofs, immaculately tailored gardens, remote-controlled driveway gates, and sometimes entire new wings. One grand old pile down the street from us was fitted with shiny new gutters made entirely of copper. A new house a few doors down from Esrey’s spread is so large it has two multicar garages, one at either end.

These changes are of course not unique to Mission Hills. What has gone on there is normal in its freakishness. You can observe the same changes in Shaker Heights or La Jolla or Winnetka or Ann Coulter’s hometown of New Canaan, Connecticut. They reflect the simplest and hardest of economic realities: The fortunes of Mission Hills rise and fall in inverse relation to the fortunes of ordinary working people. When workers are powerful, taxes are high, and labor is expensive (as was the case from World War II until the late seventies), the houses built here are smaller, the cars domestic, the servants rare, and the overgrown look fashionable in gardening circles. People read novels about eccentric English aristocrats trapped in a democratic age, sighing sadly for their lost world.

When workers are weak, taxes are down, and labor is cheap (as in the twenties and again today), Mission Hills coats itself in shimmering raiments of gold and green. Now the stock returns are plush, the bonus packages fat, the servants affordable, and the suburb finds that the princely life isn’t dead after all. It builds new additions and new fountains and new Italianate porches overlooking Olympic-sized flower gardens maintained by shifts of laborers. People read books about the glory of empire. The kids get Porsches or SUVs when they turn sixteen; the houses with asphalt roofs discreetly disappear; the wings that were closed off are triumphantly reopened, and all is restored to its former grandeur. Times may be hard where you live, but here events have yielded a heaven on earth, a pleasure colony out of the paintings of Maxfield Parrish.

america's workers and small farmers were saved by the reforms of the 1930s, as frank explains, then crushed as the wealthy found out how to squirrel away their taxes (in part thanks to the collapse of the british empire), accumulate wealth away from prying eyes, lobby the government for preferential treatment, and between 1976 and 2000, triumph completely in the political domain. mission hill donates more money to politicians than the rest of kansas combined. unions are swamped in state politics, and see declining fortunes. as a result, neoliberal social atomization takes effect, which sees even workers demanding beggar-thy-neighbour policies. and when thy neighbour is socially distinct from you, it becomes easier to justify voting for such politics based on a survival instinct. the majority of the working class tuned out and do not vote any more. among the rest, low skilled working class jobs in highly stratified and inequitable cities vote democrat, hoping for some patronage from the white collar creative class voters they serve, while blue collar skilled workers tend to vote republican, devoid of any examples of class politics in their lives with the death of unions and hoping to keep their share of wages against their only opposition, the tax man.

ultimately, any socially liberal politics sustained by donations from rich big city donors is unsustainable. on the other hand, the notion that “woke” politics is holding back leftism is, save for a few clearly absurd situations (robin diangelo, for instance) also wrong. economic leftism leads to social leftism, because respect to the working class leads to respect for its identities. neoliberal atomization is a much deeper force than can be surmounted at the ballot box, even in a primary, but it is always an economic force first and foremost.

[evelynmlewis]

The Kingdom of Heaven: Chapter Eleven

Comes after this.

***

Cam was very hung over the next day.

I was just exhausted, but shrugged it off with a caffeine brew. Not exactly the best way to go into a mission, but I had to make do.

We arrived at the Wall at around nine AM. I’d been instructed to wear civilian clothes. The same was not true of Cam or the other DYNTEC agents on the job today. They all had on black combat fatigues and waterproof boots and various belts and straps. All were heavily armed.

As far as I’d been aware up until now, there was only one gate in the wall. It was the big fancy gate, the one two hundred feet high that was supposed to remain shut until the day when humanity could finally return to the Earth.

But, as I’d discovered various times over the last few days, I’d been misinformed. There was a second gate. It was a bit smaller, and it was at a totally different place in the wall. It was hidden by a concrete building adjacent to the wall, the building itself covered in signs that said “NO TRESPASSING”, “KEEP OUT”, and “DYNTEC PROPERTY”.

Inside, there was something resembling a large garage door. Parked in front of it was a Land Rover. I’d never seen a vehicle like it before, and I hung back, afraid to touch.

Jesse was the driver. “Get in,” he said. He seemed to have finished growing a handlebar moustache specifically for this mission. I took the passenger seat.

Cam and two other men jumped up. They were expected to cling on to the back and side rails while standing. I hoped Cam wouldn’t fall off. He had dark circles under his eyes.

“All right”, said Jesse into his Biometric. “Operation Wounded Gazelle is a go.”

The garage door slowly began to rise.

The jeep revved, and we trundled forward into the unknown.

***

For a few hours we were silent. It was still morning, after all, and we were tired. But mostly, we were entranced.

Over the last several hundred years, green things had encroached all the way up to the Wall of the Settlement. Technically we were, even now, still driving through a lost district. This place had once been city. Broken roads spread out under us, and there were abandoned buildings for miles. But there were also plants. Even trees. They came out from everywhere, from the holes in the concrete, from the windows of buildings (and strangely-shaped buildings they were), and from the skeletal shells of cars.

Plants had consumed this city like spores of the edible fungus in the food labs that grows to the shape of its mesh. They filled and spilled from everything.

My senses were overwhelmed with green.

Besides all of this, there was a strange, recurring, high-pitched noise, of which I could not quite discern the origin. It continued, growing only occasionally louder and then quieter, as we traveled.

The air smelled different out here, too. It revitalized me almost instantly. I thought I could never breathe enough of it. I looked up at Cam, wondering if he was having the same experience. I couldn’t read him.

Jesse did not stop.

The building corpses grew smaller, into the ruins of single-dwelling houses and two-lane roads. I knew he’d said “fifty miles”, but I had still been picturing the Kingdom of Heaven as some kind of poverty-stricken slum-like outgrowth of the Settlement, just beyond the wall. When we eventually left behind any signs of civilization other than the remnants of the road, I slowly began to realize that this was not the case.

We continued using the road until the ground began to slope and the concrete became too broken to drive on. Jesse was using a screen on the Jeep’s dashboard to navigate. I examined it, but it showed only a topographical map, with elevation defined by contour.

We drove across a space filled with more dense, lush grass than any I’d ever seen, and parked between two small hills. There were trees visible from here too, some tall thin dark ones away on the hills. More trees were ahead—we couldn’t go on, at least not in the Jeep.

“We’re here,” said Jesse.

“Where are we?” I asked.

He looked me directly in the eye. “The place where you get out.”

Cam and the boys had jumped down onto the grass.

I was hesitant, at first, to put my feet, wearing plastic-soled shoes, down on the grass in full weight. I thought, perhaps, it might be more respectful to take my shoes off.

So I did. Jesse didn’t stop me. Then I carefully slipped down. My feet touched grass. I was sure that I was still damaging it. The blades were so soft. And they tickled, too. There seemed to be a hundred itchy things in the grass.

I put my socks back on. That was all right, and then my socks were suddenly wet through. I grimaced and put my shoes back on.

“Necessary evils,” said Jesse, giving me the side-eye.

“Right,” I said.

“I’ve got a map for you,” he said.

“Are you guys leaving? Now?” I felt a little panicked.

“Yes. We’re driving back to the Settlement. As you’ve been told, Cam is your contact…” Jesse gave Cam a thump on the back, and he jumped to alert.

“That means he’s going to be driving out regularly to meet with you. Now take this.” He handed me a piece of paper. It was unusual for me to handle paper. I unfolded it gingerly.

“Try to keep that dry.”

It was a topographical map similar to what Jesse had been looking at on the Land Rover. There was a red X marked on it, and a blue dot on the opposite corner of the paper.

“The dot is where we are now. The X is your destination.”

There was also a green triangle, and curving streaks of blue. I wasn’t sure what they meant. “What does—” I started, but Jesse had already gotten back into the Jeep and started it. I ran toward him. “Hey, what—”

He started backing up. He was ignoring me deliberately.

Everybody was on board. Cam was in the passenger seat now. They were leaving. I couldn’t believe it. I took a few more steps after the vehicle, but faltered.

The Jeep got smaller in the distance, until it went around the edge of the hill and was gone.

I stared after it for a long time.

[sydneygaragedoors01]

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[goodwriterwithbadhabits]

Save Me, Save You

Master list

Your breath hitched in your throat as you peered at the computer screen in front of you. He wasn't even trying to hide, just standing next to the elevator waiting.

Waiting for you.

He had been there all day, ever since you had sprinted into the elevator when you realized he had followed you from your apartment. You should have been out of your work hours ago, but your boss had asked you to finish up a few urgent things, and you had hoped he would have left during that time.

Now you were scared. It wasn't super late at night, just past 7:30, but the financial district you worked in would be essentially deserted at this hour. Worse, your car had mysteriously broken down over the weekend, but now something was telling you he had something to do with it. The office was empty, the only way out being through the parking garage he was in.

To put it simply, you were doomed. 

Looking away from the screen you spun slightly in your wheelie chair, maybe you could call your boss, have him get the police, or just ask to sleep in the break room. You were technically clocked out, so you wouldn't be costing him anything extra. As you spun back round to your computer, something yellow caught your eye. A post-it note.

"Don't worry babe, I'll always protect you! ~Super Sungjinnie" You smiled at the writing, thinking back to your most recent ex, the man you had dated just after the one that was waiting for you downstairs. Below his writing was a badly drawn bear wearing a mask and a cape. Maybe calling him wouldn't be the worst thing?

"Hello?" His voice made you smile. "Y/n?"

"Sungjin. Hey, how are you?" You cringed at your own words. He let out a dry laugh.

"Are you really calling to ask how I am?" You sighed, biting the tip of your thumb as you stared at the security footage.

"No." You accepted defeat. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called, I just didn't know who else to go to." You could feel yourself getting worked up.

"Hey, hey, take a breath sweetheart. What has you so scared?" Your heart clenched at his words. You had only dated a few months before you had broken it off with him. He was always able to pick out your emotions, even over the phone. You had told him there was just no spark, but you both knew it was a lie.

"There's someone waiting for me outside my work. He's right by the elevator and I'm the only one here. I don't know what to do." You heard him draw a breath.

"Why does he scare you so much?"

"He followed me to work. I know what he's capable of, I think he wants to kill me." Tears escaped down your cheeks and you attempted to calm yourself down.

"Give me a few minutes. Calm yourself down, everything's going to be fine. I'll call you right back. Don't try to leave." He hung up without another word, leaving you to the quiet of your office.

True to his word he was back 6 minutes later.

"Are you still at your desk?" He asked in lieu of a greeting.

"Yes."

"Good. Are you wearing heels today?"

"Um, yes."

"Take them off and either leave them there or put them in your bag. I'm pulling into the lot now, I want to to get on the elevator and go to the parking garage. I'll be right there when you get down there. Run to my car and get in. Don't hesitate, just go as soon as the doors open. Understand?" His voice had taken on a different quality now like he was used to issuing orders.

"Yes." You nodded, tucking your shoes into your handbag.

"Then go." He hung up again and you shoved your phone in your bag, threw on your blazer, and darted for the elevator.

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure it would echo through the small compartment. You tried to keep yourself calm as the numbers ticked steadily down but when the small screen read B1, you felt ready to vomit.

"Just run." You reminded yourself. The doors slowly slid open and the moment there was enough space for you to, you slipped out and bolted for the black car less than 15 feet away.

You didn't make it.

Someone grabbed the back of your shirt and before you could slip out of it, your back was pressed against their chest and something cold was pressed against your neck.

"Hello, beautiful." He growled and you did your best not to scream, eyes trained on the car in front of you. Sungjin stared at the two of you, a bored expression on his features. "God, you still smell so wonderful."

"Let me go, Mac." You ordered, but your voice was small. He growled animalistically and dug his blade further into your neck. You gasped, both at the pain, and the feeling of something warm beginning to run down your neck. You watched Sungjins face change into one of anger and the black-haired man opened the door to stand. Hot tears cascaded down your face as you allowed the fear to wash over you.

"Did you get a knight in shining armor? Do you think he'll be able to do shit against me?" His final words were punctuated with the knife digging in a little further, making you let out a small yelp.

"Let her go, kid. Before I do something she might regret." Sungjin ordered, voice devoid of emotion.

"Something she might regret?" Mac laughed. "My baby only regrets leaving me, isn't that right baby?"

"I regret ever getting with you, in the first place." You growled, suddenly finding the fear replaced by anger.

"Say that shit again bitch, and I'll gut you." Mac threatened. A metallic click filled the empty lot and Sungjin then had a small handgun pointed at the pair of you. Since when did Sungjin even know how to use a gun? Your eyes went wide, both in fear and shock, but Mac simply laughed. "One little handgun? You'd hit her." He shifted, pulling you to be more like a human shield and you felt your hands beginning to shake. Sungjin simply smiled and two more jet black cars swerved into the garage, positioning themselves on either side of Sungjin. Out of one car, you recognized Sungjin's friend Jae as he pointed his own handgun in your direction, along with Wonpil who remained in the driver's seat, ready to speed off. The other car shocked you just as hard when Brian stood from the driver's seat, a shotgun in hand, and Dowon rose out of the sunroof with a sniper rifle of sorts. Mac stiffened, grip tightening slightly, but the knife was shaking.

"Let her go and walk away, kid. Before you get hurt." Mac's grip on you loosened and Sungjin lowered his gun, the others did not. "Come on, beautiful. Get in the car." Mac's arm fell from around you and you heard the knife clatter to the ground. Now free, you let out a shaky breath, slamming your elbow into the man's stomach and smirking to yourself when he doubled over in pain. You saw a grin erupt on Brian's face and Jae flashed you a thumbs up as you climbed into Sungjins car. You stared out the windshield in stunned silence as you heard the other two cars drive off.

"Seatbelt," Sungjin ordered softly and you complied with a shaking hand, the fear and shock of your previous situation washing over you. He climbed into the driver seat, speeding away the moment his seatbelt clicked. "Don't look back, he's not worth it. He won't bother you again." His voice was quiet, soft but stern, and you couldn't remove your eyes from the road ahead of you. You were both silent as he drove and you couldn't bring yourself to protest when he sped right past your neighborhood. He didn't stop driving until he reached the hills on the outskirts of town, and pulled up to your stargazing spot. Parking, he climbed out of the car and moved around the back. You jumped nearly sky high when your door opened. You couldn't look at him, eyes raining on the cityscape in front of you.

"You're bleeding." He commented and your hand immediately reached up to touch the sticky substance tricking into your shirt. "Turn and face me, love." He had once again returned to the voice you were used to, the softly spoken words accompanied by an even softer smile. Unbuckling, you shifted so your legs were hanging out the car door and he kneeled on the ground between them. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions." He didn't look at your face but you couldn't stop staring at his. "I have a few of my own."

"Is your name really Sungjin?" Your voice was shaking, and he must have known how scared you were at that moment.

"Unless you ask Jae who refuses to call me anything but Bob." He joked, eyes darting to your face. "I never lied to you. I do work with my friends, I would have told you the whole truth if we had stayed together longer. Day6 is organized crime but that doesn't make us bad people." He sighed, carefully dabbing your wound with an alcohol pad.

"I wouldn't have broken up with you if I knew what you were capable of." You whispered after a few quiet moments. He stopped his movements, staring at you fully, confusion etched into his features. "I didn't want to break up with you, but you were so sweet and nice. When Mac started his bullshit, I was so scared he would come after you-"

"He was harassing you while we were together?" Sungjins voice was hard but his face softened when he looked at yours. He reached up, wiping away tears you hadn't realized had fallen.

"If I tell you what he's done, are you going to kill him?"

"Has he done something warranting a killing?" The concern in Sungjins voice made you feel the need to be wrapped up in his arms.

"He," You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, hesitating for a moment before unbuttoning your shirt.

"Woah!" Sungjin gasped, averting his eyes.

"Look, please." You asked of him, and slowly his head turned back to you.

"Oh my God." He breathed, his hands immediately coming to caress your skin, which was littered in scars. His warm skin against yours sent a shiver down your spine but he didn't seem to notice as he examined each mark. "He did this to you?" You could only bring yourself to nod."You broke up with me because you were scared of what he might do to me?" His voice was barely discernable over the wind coursing through the trees but you again nodded.

"If I had known-" You stopped talking as his hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you to the edge of your seat while his head came to rest on your collarbone.

"I want to be there for you, I want to be the one to protect you, please don't push me away again." His breath fanned across your exposed chest, his hands warm against your back and you were sure he could hear your heart pick up speed at his words. Your hands moved of their own accord, one wrapping around his shoulders and the other winding into his hair.

"I pushed you away from me because I was scared because I wanted to protect you. You were the sweetest, nicest, softest man I had ever met and I was terrified of watching you get hurt, but now..." You trailed off with a small chuckle. "I'd like to try again Sungjin, to stay for good." His head came up and he smiled broadly at you, placing a kiss on the bandage on your neck.

"I'll protect us both, I promise." He vowed, removing his hands from within your shirt and buttoning it back up. "Would you like to come back to my apartment for the night? Just in case he tries something?"

"I'd like that." You grinned up at him. "And maybe you'll tell me the story of how you boys ended up being organized crime." It was his turn to let out a laugh.

"If I tell you, I'd have to kill you."

[slit-the-rasceta]

For you, I’ll stay | III: The Soldier

written by — @slit-the-rasceta // @monoluvie​

BREAK AND ENTRY AT THE HILL January 10, 1996, Wednesday

YONGSAN-GU, SEOUL — Dispatch calls to the Seoul patrol at around 11:00 PM last night, January 9, reported a break and entry at the executive subdivision, The Hill. To those unfamiliar with the residential area, The Hill is publicised as the most upscale, private subdivision in the greater Yongsan area. This places it as one of the more heavily guarded places in the district as it houses mostly political and affluent residents.

Officers arrived at the scene of the crime at approximately twenty minutes past the time of the distress call. According to the police, the call was made by Assistant Inspector Lee Yuna as she arrived at the house of the Minister of National Defense, Kim Dongjin, taken on the record, the Assistant Inspector confirms that it was indeed the Minister’s house that was broken into, she adds that this was not a case of mere breach of property, but also of assault and possibly attempted kidnapping.

The victim was the Minister’s 19-year old daughter, Kim Jiho, who was found by the Minister himself at their garage—bruised, bloodied and unconscious. Medics arrived soon after to treat the family for shock as well as Ms. Jiho for the severe wounds she sustained.

When asked about the suspect or the possible motive, Assistant Inspector Lee refused to give any comment and closed the scene from further media personnel. — THE SEOUL DAILY

132-12 Cheongdam-dong, Gangnam-Gu, Seoul The Miroh Brotherhood House (미로 일족 집) January 10, 1996, Wednesday 5:00 hrs.

In the silence of their mansion, he sits with a posture so straight one would think he had never experienced the feeling of bowing down to someone. He was wearing a double-breasted suit with fabric that gives off a sheen as the dawn peeks through the blinds, and with not a stray hair in sight, he looks every bit of the capo famiglia, albeit he’d rather be called just “Hyung”—although never “Chan”.

His underboss, or capo bastone, is the singular exception. “Chan.” his voice is level, knowing full well what their leader is up to so early in the morning.

“They’re like a bunch of ants, Woojin,” he sighs, folding the newspaper and placing it back on the mahogany coffee table—as though it was pure entertainment to see the police force scrambling just to give a decent statement to the press. “One break in their routine and they end up in chaos, it’s hilarious.”

His light chuckle only earned him a glare from his right-hand man. “You really shouldn’t mock them, you know.” he shakes his head, hands pocketed. Although he must admit that he too, found it amusing—the SMPA’s inefficiency, that is.

“And why not?” Chan stands, smoothing out the creases of his suit jacket. “They can’t even trace a simple phone call, besides, I think I’m allowed to revel in some form of gratification while this is all happening. It’s not every day that you come across this.” he picks up the documents that they retrieved from the Minister’s home office.

That was the main objective, after all; In order of priority, their operation centered on first, retrieving all the vetting intel of every legislative electoral candidate and second, on replacing that intel with a carefully-curated message for the Minister.

—

Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency, Jogno-gu District. January 13, 1996, Saturday. 13:30 hrs.

Her eyes were bloodshot, and her neck was strained, but she had finally figured it out, after three sleepless nights, and a minimum of three cups of coffee per day, she had finally sorted things out. On the first day, she had successfully detailed the night’s events in proper order—down to the time the security system was breached and the moment the wiretapped phone lines were restored to normal.

On the second day, she had returned to the crime scene and taken statements from a secondary victim, the maid, and from eyewitnesses who reportedly saw a suspicious-looking van parked at an empty lot near the residence of the Minister, and finally, on the last day, she realized how that 19-year old girl fit into all of this.

She had pieced everything together as soon as she heard the new development on the case earlier that day.

“Assistant Inspector,” one of the officers-in-training had called her, knocking on the glass door before stepping through the threshold of the conference room. She had been the only one left on the floor as everyone took their lunch break. It was something she was used to doing, and since the briefing with the Minister was due on Monday, everyone knew that she would be cooped up in the conference room anyway.

“What is it?” she asks, not turning around to face the younger boy.

“The Minister called.” his voice was level, but there was a slight undertone of worry, she turns her head so quickly she almost got whiplash. “What did he say?”

“He said…” the officer trails off, hesitant, but at the grave look on her face, he  gulps and continues. “The Minister said he found out just now that on the night of the assault, the perpetrators also broke into his home office, cracked the vault and took the documents.”

She quirks an eyebrow at this; how could the Minister only know of this now? Surely he noticed that the documents were missing that same night or at the very latest the day after? Did he have an oversight or was he waiting for something?

“What kind of documents?” she asks, shoulders squared and lips pressed in a thin line. If she was being honest, she hadn’t the slightest clue what they could possibly want but if they were detailed enough to carry out such an elaborate plan, it would have to be something concerning—at the very least, national governance or those with high-enough security clearance to even keep such a paper trail in their own home.

“Vetting documents…” the officer said, handing a list of names over to her. “Of all the electoral candidates for this year’s legislative elections.”

—

51-7, Gocheog il-dong, Guro-gu, Seoul. Assistant Inspector Lee Yuna’s Residence. January 14, 1996, Sunday. 02:00 hrs.

Her apartment was on the seventh floor. It had been a routine of hers to take the stairs instead of the elevator, no matter how tired she was, but she had checked out of the agency at almost 2:00 am, and while the commute back to the apartment complex wasn’t too taxing, she knew that she had no more energy left to walk six flights of stairs.

The elevator lobby was empty, the stone flooring gleaming as the lights bounced off of its surface, she had pressed the arrow pointing up, but the current elevator cabs were still making their way to the ground floor. While waiting, she heard footsteps echo across the lobby, but thought less of it because she had gotten used to crossing paths with one or two night owls, or sometimes, the occasional delivery man.

She was living in an upper middle-class apartment complex where most of the tenants either had middle management positions in their own jobs, or were a few people away from getting the position of their boss, but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t order takeout or come home in the early hours of the morning.

Just as the sound of the footfalls stopped, the ‘ding’ of the elevator cab opening snapped her out of her reverie, she had been thinking about the case throughout her whole commute home—it was the small things, like the public service announcements at the train station or the elevator ding just now, that kept her on her toes; granted, she was practically sleepwalking, but she made sure to give herself some pockets of lucidity before she finally falls flat on her bed.

As the elevator doors closed, she looks up, and sees a man wearing an all-black attire and a navy blue baseball cap. He was just standing there, hands in his pockets and stance at ease.

However, something about him sent a chill through her spine. Her mind traces back to the sound of footsteps a while ago, but she belatedly realizes that she had never seen that guy in their apartment complex before.

Thoroughly awake—and downright unnerved, she brisk-walks towards her unit as soon as she exits the elevator. At the last turn, she feels her pulse quicken as she senses something shuffling at the end of the corridor. Immediately, she double-locks the door as she safely enters the apartment.

By this time, she’s dropped her attaché case and file folders on the floor, one hand trembling over the holster at the small of her back and the other still perched over the brass doorknob. The entire apartment is silent, yet she could feel her heart threaten to burst through her ribcage and her breathing spin into an irregular pattern of inhale, exhale, exhale, inhale.

Realizing that there was nothing to be worried about, she focuses on her breath, and closes her eyes, removing her hands from the holster and doorknob. After a few minutes, she was finally able to match her breathing with her heartbeat. The deeper her inhale, the slower the exhale—the calmer she became. Gradually, she felt a warmth travel from her nape to the soles of her feet, as though her shadow had somewhat become a spectre of positive light behind her.

She felt calmer and calmer, all thoughts of the case drifting away momentarily as the brief surge of adrenaline after bolting away from that disturbing (not to mention, obscure) force brought her down an unprecedented high, she began to vocalize her breathing, inhaling from the nose and exhaling from the mouth.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Somehow she heard her breathing becoming louder, even though she had only controlled it to the point where it was no more than a few decibels higher than a whisper.

Curiously, she felt her breathing form some sort of echo, as though after the sound of her inhale or exhale, a ripple was heard throughout her apartment—like a follow-through of another breath being expelled.

And then, she hears it again. This time, a full beat earlier than her, as it grew louder and louder, she felt the unease build up again, and just when she moves to turn her head, the sound of the breathing is redirected straight to the shell of her ear, the warm burst of air sending goosebumps rising all over her skin.

“It took you three days?”

Her breath caught in her throat. It was a man’s voice. Her knee-jerk reaction was to reach for her gun, but she flinches instead, giving him purchase over her entire upper torso. He snakes one hand through both her arms and locks both behind her back, with his other hand unclasping the gun and tossing it halfway across the room.

This time her breathing skyrockets into an erratic, rollercoaster-like pace. She knows she is about to experience another panic attack, but she also will not let her assailant get the upper hand.

She charges backwards to the wall with a force enough to elicit a grunt from him as he momentarily loosens his grip over her arms. She wrestles away and scrambles for the gun in the dark. After making out the shape of her handgun, she reaches for it just as her assailant is about to pick up her files.

They both stand at attention, her gun pointed at him. He was the epitome of sleek and composed—the lines of his body fluidly melding into one resolute silhouette. Meanwhile, her entire figure was shaking and her aim was for sure aligned with the peephole instead of his actual figure. She realizes now that he was standing by the doorway—where her things were, and she was by the terrace, the telephone an arm’s reach away.

She contemplates on making a dispatch call to any patrol officer in the area, but realizes she couldn’t risk that move with him having more than one of the advantages. He’s got immediate access to the exit as well as all her files about the case—she assumed that was what he was asking about earlier, and he could easily just pick up the files and still have enough time to flee the scene before any unit actually comes.

No, she has to play along with the deadlock—at least until she manages another plan.

“What do you want?” she doesn’t stutter but there is a relatively distinct lilt in her tone.

“You’re asking the wrong question,” he gives a one-shouldered shrug, hands still in his pockets. Just as she was about to lower her gun, he moves forward. She takes a step back, almost as if he had taken an entire lunge across the room.

Thoroughly confused, she feels her grip on her handgun quiver even more, as he keeps on taking step after step towards her. Finally, he stops, a few feet away from her. He holds onto her gun. She hesitates for a second, not wanting to lower her gun down. But he reaches for the safety, pulls it back and realigns her gun to his face. “You are going to shoot me after all, right, Ms. Inspector?”

He takes a step back, letting the moonlight wash over the both of them.

“So,” he puts his hands back in his pants’ pockets. “Might as well make the question count before you take a shot.”

Baffled at his nonchalance, she squares her shoulders. If he’s actually giving her an opportunity to shoot him at such close proximity, she might have a chance at severely wounding him, after a beat, she stiffens her hold on the gun, supporting it with her other hand. She’s thought of a question to buy her some time to get a proper shot.

“What do you want with those documents?” she squints, hoping to make out some features of her assailant.

“Hm,”  He hums in response, looking up to the ceiling as if in thought. “Close enough.”

Almost instantaneously, he disappears from her direct line of sight. Before she could register what was happening, he knocks out the gun from her hand as he bolts up from a crouching position, reappearing a hair’s breadth away from her.

The sting from his blow renders her dominant hand useless. Thrown off balance, she has no time to recover as he takes advantage of her open form and holds down her entire arm with one hand and envelopes her throat with the other.

He lifts her up a few inches from the floor—his russet irises turning into gold against the moonlight. He slowly clenches his hand around her throat, revelling in the sound of her chokes and gasps. Despite her attempts at clawing on his arm or prying his fingers off, tears well at her waterline as she feels herself slowly lose hold of the present moment.

“A broken wrist,” he says, and snaps her entire hand backward. She wants to scream but she could barely breathe as it is. “And a few minutes of unconsciousness should be enough answer.” he says, but she can barely make out his voice.

Her world slowly began to fade into darkness as he let her drop to the floor with a dull thud.

He walks towards the entrance, picks up her files from the floor and tucked it inside his inner pocket. He was about to leave, his hand was already holding the door knob but he spares her a second glance, and catches sight of the telephone.

“You should have called when you had the chance.” he says to himself in the night’s silence. “He was patrolling your area tonight.” He closes the door behind him, walking back to the parking lot.