#neighborhood beautification

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[artisticdivasworld]

The Power of Street Art: How Murals Can Transform Communities

In our visit with art forms around the world, this is #3 in the series.  #1 was Mexican Folk Art, and #2 was Japanese Kintsugi. Please feel free to revisit them or check them out if you missed them. In cities around the world, blank walls and empty spaces are being transformed into vibrant works of art through street art and murals. Far from being a nuisance, this public art form is having…

[ilguna]

☼ my tears ricochet pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; it’s been six months since you were banished from district four. since then, you’ve been trying to lay low and keep your nose clean. one night, you and gale go to the local bar to wind down after a long week, and he helps you come to a realization that changes everything.

warnings; swearing, prostitution mention, alcohol, arson, death mention, mental health talk, torture.

wc; 6.5k

part one.

notes; hints of Gale slander but fish are friends not food!!

--

The July summer breeze feels nice against your hot skin, causing you to close your eyes to enjoy it properly. It’s even better this way. You reach back to lift the hair off your neck, which is slightly damp from sweat after working all day in the sun. A chill goes down your spine when the wind hits the spot just right.

There’s a lot of similarities between District Two and Four that you've come to notice over time, but the heat is not one of them. It’s very dry here, there’s a lot of desert and very little rain to sustain any real plant life. Any that do exist have already evolved to live off of practically no water. For miles, all you can see is dirt and half-dead bushes, 

While back home, you’re located right on the coast, allowing for more rainy days than plain sunshine. The trees, grass and flowers are always fed and healthy. Even if it doesn’t rain, there are clouds to block the heat from beating on you, making every afternoon a pleasant one. 

This weather difference alone isn’t enough to make you feel homesick, but there are so many other factors at play that contribute to it. When you first moved to District Two, you had a feeling that you’d never be able to get used to living here. It’s been six months since then, and you’re still a stranger when you walk the streets.

The only familiar thing—or rather, person—here is Gale.

Except, he isn’t from home. He’s not one of your childhood friends, or a neighbor from your previous neighborhood. You can’t talk to him about what could be going on since you got banished. He’s from District Twelve. The only thing you have in common is the fact that you’re both rebels.

You can’t even use your banishment as a way to bond with him, because he deserved what he got, and you were wrongly accused. While Finnick had framed you for allegedly giving the Peacekeepers your next steps—Gale had actually indirectly got Primrose Everdeen killed through one of the ideas that he developed with Beetee.

He might not have been the one to send out the bombs, because former President Alma Coin had to approve that order, but he was the one to suggest using it. Gale was desperate to win the rebellion at any cost, until he paid the biggest price.

There’s a good chance that Gale will never be able to go back to District Twelve after what he did. Especially since Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch have decided to stay and continue living there. Although, with how well things are going in Two with the volunteer work, it probably hasn’t crossed his mind. 

It’s not exactly easy work. Most of the time, you don’t have enough time to be thinking about anything other than what your hands are doing. It’s mind-numbing in a good way, and usually you feel pretty accomplished by the end of the task. 

The work deals with a lot of construction and beautification. Usually, you don’t get paid for it. Sometimes they’ll give out free lunch if it’s going to be a particularly long day of tearing down bricks and planting greenery. There’s been a few times where you’ve been so caught up in the work, that you went all night.

It’s gotten you a lot of recognition from the people that are native to Two, which is not what you’re striving for, but it’s nice to not have to worry about the hatred as much. When you first arrived at the train station six months ago, it was pretty clear that a lot of people held prejudice against you. Over time, they’ve gotten curious and have bothered you to ask what happened.

It takes a lot of explanation and convincing, but eventually they believe you. Or, at the very least, they take a neutral standpoint and choose not to pick a side entirely. You know that it’s a lot of he-said, she-said. It’s hard to know who’s telling the truth in a serious situation like that.

On one hand, it’d be nice to believe Finnick, because he’s the one that first came forward with the story. Plus, he’s been Panem’s darling for so long that it would be heinous for him to do something so selfish and seemingly out-of-character.

On the other, you have never done something so snake-ish ever. Everyone should know that if a situation like that happens, you would take the hit of being taken for the greater good. It’s your one life versus several. As terrifying as it would’ve been, you could’ve handled whatever the Capitol had to offer for you at that moment. 

Of course, when you tell people the real side of the story, you take a massive hit for not telling the group when you had the chance before the sewers. The issue is that Finnick had been keeping a close eye on you, under the guise that he wanted to protect you, but also to ensure that your mouth stayed shut. 

If you could go back and change the situation, you would. 

“(L/n), (Y/n).” A woman calls.

You open your eyes, briefly being blinded by the sun while you turn to face Azalea. She’s the head director here in District Two for the volunteer work, she keeps everything very organized. It’s less stressful when she’s the one taking care of things for the day.

“Yes?” You ask, finding her at the front of the crowd.

She’s a short, blonde woman with tan skin. She holds up the clipboard, showing you the paper for a second. All you can gather is the fact that it’s a signup sheet, so you begin to move forward, carefully brushing past some of the workers in the process.

“What time did you get here today?” Azalea asks, once you’re in front of her.

“Um—“ You glance over your shoulder to search for Gale, because he’s the one with the watch. He keeps track of the time and when you go on break.

“Seven-twenty.” Gale says from beside you, making you jump slightly. “We both got here at that time.”

Azalea hums, writing that down in the time slot next to your names. You look over Gale, who you haven’t seen in a good fifteen minutes. There’s a smudge of dirt beneath his eye, so you lick your thumb, reaching to rub it away. He dodges your finger, face twisting in disgust.

“You look dirty.” You tell him, wiping the dirt off of his skin. “Stop being a baby, I’ve seen you eat a potato that touched the bar floor before.”

“It was expensive.” 

“Are either of you available tomorrow for a paid job?” Azalea interrupts. “I’ve got a house call from Enobaria Golding that needs to be done, and no one is signing up for it.”

“What’s it for?” You ask.

“She’s turning Victor’s Village into a memorial, I believe she just needs help moving furniture around in some of the houses. As well as cleaning up the neighborhood’s fountain, loose leaves, and pavement.”

You look at Gale with raised eyebrows, his lips are pressed together. “What time?”

“Whenever you can, she thinks it’s going to be a three day job at the very least. She’s paying over a hundred per hour, it used to be lower, but got raised because it’s urgent.” Azalea looks between you two.

“I’m in.” You tell her, “We could have it done in three days.”

Gale sighs, “Yeah, sign me up too.”

She begins to write your names down on a separate paper. “Will it be a big deal if I close it, then? I don’t think I’ll be able to find others. No one’s keen on Enobaria.”

“That’s fine.” You agree, “I know her, we’ll get along. Is it a contract?”

“I can make it one.” Azalea nods. “Swing by later tonight, I’ll have it ready.”

“Sounds good, Azalea. Thank you.” You nod.

“Are we good to go?” Gale asks, beginning to take a step back.

“Yup. Be good, you two.” She points the end of her pen in the middle of you guys, and then turns her attention back to the group that’s waiting to sign out.

Gale takes charge on leading you out of the center square. With how tall he is and the aggressive look on his face, he clears a path faster than you can. Besides, no one wants to be more than three feet near him. And yes, that has to do with his own reputation. 

“What’s your plan for tonight?” Gale asks over his shoulder.

“Well, since we’re probably going to get a late start tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind going to the bar tonight.” You raise your eyebrows.

He hums, “Right now?”

“Sure, why not?”

With that, Gale changes direction, heading for the good bar on the other side of District Two. When you first came here, you spent a lot of time bar hopping. In those weeks, you figured out that the fancy places were not, in fact, better. They were just more expensive. 

It wasn’t until you found the dirty place on the corner of Upper Heights, did you realize that they charge less for better quality. The only perk of going to those higher-end places is the fact that you can brag that you went there. You don’t talk to many people outside of Gale, and he was the one you took with you.

Well, that’s not entirely right. You didn’t take him with you—he tagged along, despite knowing that he was unwelcome. You didn’t like him very much to begin with back in District Thirteen because you thought what he did to Peeta’s family was pretty shitty, so you tried to steer clear of him as much as possible. The way he acted during the Capitol storming just solidified your ideas.

When Gale heard that you were going to be staying in District Two, he attached to you. You tried several different ways to get him to leave you alone, ranging from practically verbally abusing him to flat out ignoring. He didn’t care, he was ready for whatever you had to throw at him.

It eventually hit the point where you figured that you might as well deal with him. At the time, it would’ve been easier to put up with Gale than to try and convince someone that you were worthy of a conversation. He was an ass to put up with, and you caught yourself wondering how Katniss hung around him for so long.

In the end, it worked out. You and Gale can talk to each other without arguing. You two have a lot more in common than you originally thought, too. Although, some of his ideas are questionable, and you usually have to stop him from talking to keep that peaceful state.

“I’m surprised you want to drink so early.” Gale remarks.

“It’s almost eight o’clock.” You reason, motioning to the sky. “It’s not my fault it’s still bright out.”

The sun is slowly setting on the horizon, getting ready to say goodbye for the night. Which is good, because you’re tired of the heat. Unfortunately, it’ll still be warm out, even with the flaming ball in the sky gone. At least the bar has air conditioning. 

Gale reaches for the handle, pulling the door open. He holds it for you as you enter first, allowing you to choose where to sit tonight. You head for the table in the corner, the one that lets you have a perfect view of the entire room, and a quick escape for the door. 

Gale begrudgingly takes his jacket off and sets it on the chair that has its back to the room. “Your usual?”

“Yes, and water, please.” You tell him, reaching for your wallet. “I’ll pay for the first round. We can alternate tonight.”

Gale holds his hand out, watching as you drop the cash in his hand. He counts it as he walks away, heading for the bar top. You watch as he and the bartender go back and forth as the drinks are made. A minute later, Gale comes over, placing the glasses on the table. 

You start with the water, parched. They provide water, but they keep the bottles to recycle them, even if you aren’t finished with what’s inside. Once half the cup is empty, you start on your mixed drink, watching as Gale takes a sip of straight brown liquor.

“Do you remember what Azalea was saying about next week?” You ask, watching as Gale’s face twists.

“You mean the beach clean up?” Gale asks.

“Yeah, she said District Four, right?”

“I think. And whatever else is beside it. They’ve got their own coordinators over there, so they aren’t taking volunteers. Trust me, I tried.”

“They would’ve denied me, anyway.” You roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Azalea hesitated. She said that we’d be useful, but the deadline passed a couple days ago.”

“Any victors going?” You ask.

He scoffs, “No, the last I heard, everyone’s hands off.”

You hum, resting your head on your hand. You get about the same information that Gale does when it comes to the victors, usually in snippets. 

Enobaria’s here, obviously, in District Two. You didn’t know that she was doing a memorial for the Two victors until today, which is nice of her. You can’t imagine how hard it is to be the only surviving victor of a district. Especially since Lyme was alive for the rebellion, but got killed during the storming of the Capitol.

Speaking of which, Beetee’s working in the heart of it under Commander Paylor. You’re not sure what he’s doing exactly, likely something with electronics or the defense system, if you had to guess. All you know is that he was able to resume basically what he had been before, this time for a better cause.

As for Katniss, there’s a lot of mixed news on her. Some say that she’s doing over-the-phone therapy appointments with Doctor Aurelius, mandated by Paylor to assess Katniss’s state of mind periodically after the assassination of former President Snow. Others tell you that she’s been skipping calls and hasn’t been out of her house in who-knows how long. 

After everything that happened, you just hope that she's doing okay. 

Peeta is doing his own sessions, also with Doctor Aurelius. Except, he’s not in Twelve, he’s still stationed in the Capitol for the time being. There’s a lot of progress regarding the hijacking, but it’s hard to know for sure if permanent damage hasn’t been done. And they can’t really test that out, either.

Haymitch… could honestly be anywhere. You heard he was forced to attend rehab in District Thirteen a second time, getting him completely sober. He’s fallen off the map since then, so your best guess is that he’s still there. You know post-war that he began to struggle with his sobriety after losing so many longtime friends.

This brings you to the few people that you could care less about. Starting with Johanna, she’s in District Seven, enjoying her life. She isn’t doing anything of importance, just wasting away in her own victor house, letting people wait on her. They tried to get Doctor Aurelius to rope her in, but she’s resilient. She doesn’t care about bettering herself, even though it’s pretty needed after the torture.

Annie Cresta is living in District Four, right alongside your ex-boyfriend and traitor, Finnick Odair. You don’t get much information on them, and it has to do with the fact that you get pissed off at the sound of their success. From your understanding, they live guilt-free and happy in their mansions, sleeping in their own beds.

When you ask for updates regarding Four, it’s a hit or miss if you get anything of importance. For example, they could tell you that fishing’s down, and it has been for the past couple weeks. Or, they’ll lay it on heavy, by telling you that your childhood home and your victor home are nothing but foundation.

You remember how dark the world became when you heard the news. Finnick told you on that runway in City Circle that they’d burnt your victor house down, something that you’d be able to live with. It didn’t have the prized possessions of your parents and siblings, or the pictures that captured you growing up. The only physical memory of the family you once had.

Apparently, not long after Finnick returned to Four, they’d set your home ablaze, too.

A part of you wonders whether or not that was encouraged by him. God forbid if you ever find out that’s the case. You might not be very threatening now, but nothing will stand in the way between your fists and his face if he told them to take away your last safe haven in Panem.

Anyway, when you were told the news about your childhood home, it almost became your breaking point. You’d been in Two for about three weeks at that point, and you were in no sound state to hear something so heavy. Especially on top of everything else that had been happening in the last year.

“Tomorrow’s July fourth.” Gale says, kinda changing the topic.

“Reaping Day.” You agree, nodding, taking another sip of your drink. “This will be the first year where a Hunger Games hasn’t taken place in Seventy-Six years.”

Gale stares off at the bar for a couple of quiet seconds. “What was it like being a victor?”

“Was?” You repeat. “You act like that’s a title that’s been taken away. I am a victor.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Still.” You mutter. “I don’t know, what was it like being a worker in the mines?”

Gale’s face scrunches up. “You’re really comparing my district work to victor life?”

“I’m not saying district work isn’t hard or dangerous, especially with the mining stories that you were telling me. However, only one of us has been reaped twice and fought in both Hunger Games.” You remind him. “I have killed more than six people on purpose with three indirect kills following that.”

“You act like that’s something to brag about.” He squints at you.

“I’m not saying it is. All I’m saying is that victor life isn’t easy, either. And if you need an example, take Annie Cresta.”

“Annie Cresta is an anomaly.”

“But Katniss isn’t.” You raise your eyebrows. “I bet she had PTSD following her Games, and couldn’t hold a bow without remembering what she used it for inside of the arena.” 

Gale makes a face, tilting his head. “You’re not wrong.”

You raise your hand in his direction, because you knew you weren’t wrong. “Anyway, to answer your question—before the rebellion, there were hard parts and there were easy parts. Especially when it came to mentoring.”

His eyes land back on you. “How was that?”

“A nightmare.” You tell him. “There’s a reason why a lot of the victors ended up like Haymitch. Or addicted or morphling.” You swish the ice around in your glass.

“I’ll grab the next round.” Gale reaches for your cup, you move your hand.

“Thanks.”

He slides off his chair, heading away. With the questions he’s asking, you’re going to be drinking the entire night. He’s never been interested in victor life before, but you suppose there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to ask questions with Katniss. Besides, she’s not nearly as experienced as you are in that area.

He could ask you anything about the Capitol, and you’d have an answer for him. There was one point in your career where you had to be studying their mannerisms because Snow was getting ready to put you on the chopping block. Your victory almost completely outshone Finnick’s, you were going to be his ticket out of the prostitution industry, but your popularity died quickly.

For what reason, you’re not sure. All you know is that Snow sent you an ‘I regret to inform you…’ letter, telling you that you’ve been shelved. As if that was supposed to be upsetting, instead of relieving. You even remember crying in your room, praising whatever intervened and saved you.

When Gale comes back, he’s got more questions, “Wasn’t there good aspects about it, too?”

Your face twists as you take the first sip of your drink. “I guess. Besides the money and the house, we were free to do basically what we wanted in the Capitol, in moderation.”

“You weren’t trapped inside of the Tribute Center?” He asks, eyebrows raised.

“No,” You scoff, “We were anything but trapped. We were encouraged to enjoy what the Capitol had to offer, we were walking advertisements of the Hunger Games. I didn’t take advantage of it though, I’d only been on them a couple times before the Quarter Quell.”

“Why?” 

“They couldn’t just set us free, obviously. They had to keep an eye on us somehow, and that was done through the street cameras. They’re everywhere.” You shake your head. “I mean, you can’t go a single block without them.”

Gale pauses, putting his glass back down on the table. “Were they on the street when we were passing through?”

“Yeah, of course. The cameras are less frequent on the outskirts because there’s not a lot of crime in the Capitol, but they exist. It gets more difficult around the President’s Mansion because that’s a huge security risk.”

Gale stares at you, unmoving.

You look over his face, and then down to his drink. “What?”

“Are you hearing yourself?” He asks.

“Yeah?”

Gale smiles a little bit. “Never mind. What was your favorite thing to do in the Capitol?”

“It had to be the bars, or the clubs. I couldn’t go to very many of them, though. Which meant that I spent a lot of time in cafe’s.”

“Why couldn’t you go to clubs?”

“Finnick, mostly. He was a darling.” You rub the rim of your glass. When you look up at Gale, you raise your eyebrows. “You know, the whole prostitution thing. They always knew where he was because of the cameras. I’m lucky I never got pulled in. I came close several times.”

Gale presses his lips together. “They’d watch the street through the camera?”

“Yup, and they’d send high officials to our location to steal Finnick for the night, because he couldn’t say no. They could even play the footage back to see where we were coming from.”

“How far back?”

Your eyes wander away from his face. “I’m not entirely sure.” You lean back in the chair. “I mean, the Capitol used to pull footage from a year before of the victors to prove there were fashion trends.”

“So you’re telling me that they have footage of the streets from a year ago? Or at least, six months ago?” Gale presses.

“They should. I don’t know what good it would do now.” You tell him, locking eyes with him.

Gale doesn’t say anything, staring at you intensely. You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong with him, but end up sealing your lips, eyes narrowing in his direction. He does this to you sometimes when you’re missing a piece of a puzzle, and he’ll refuse to tell you what it is because he wants you to work it out.

It has to do with the cameras in the Capitol, because that’s what he’d been asking about. It’s such an insignificant detail, you’re not sure why he’s hung up on it. He had to have known there were cameras, that’s how they kept track of where you were in the sewers. If they hadn’t already known where you’d be going, of course.

The Peacekeepers found you on the street, thanks to those cameras. They probably even planned it down to the second to make sure that you were out of sight, in case any of the others came out of the apartment complex to look for you. Just like how they’d done to you and Finnick before…

You jerk upright, eyes widening as you watch Gale break into a smile. “Oh my god, there might be footage of Finnick and I on the street. And it might even have audio.”

“I was wondering when you’d get it.” He laughs.

You look around the bar, searching for the clock to find the time. It’s almost nine o’clock, the Justice Building closes at nine-thirty. Since it’s Friday, it’ll be closed through the weekend, unless there’s an emergency. And they won’t count your situation as one.

“I need to go.” You tell Gale, sliding off your chair, pulling your jacket over your arm. “I have to speak to Mayor Sybil.”

“Right now?” Gale asks, face twisting.

“Yes, right now.” You tell him. “I’ll meet you back at the house.” 

You head for the door in a rush, just barely getting the gap open wide enough for you to slip through before you’re running down the street. The Justice Building is on the other side of the town, where Azalea organizes the volunteers. You know it's a fairly long walk but you’ve never had to run there before.

You clutch the jacket to your chest, one arm pumping viciously at your side. You try your best to maneuver through the main and side streets of Upper Heights. Unfortunately, it’s not late enough for the town to be empty, especially not since it’s leading into the weekend. You receive several stares, people fully stopping to watch you run by, and heads turning at the sound of your feet crunching against gravel and cobblestone.

You try to keep your breathing as even as you can, remembering the rigorous training for the Quarter Quell that Mags put you through. She knew better than anyone what to expect. If it weren’t for her, you would’ve been unprepared.

The run feels like forever, but can’t be anymore than fifteen minutes—maybe twenty at the most. The second you see the Justice Building, a smaller boost of energy enters your system, and it’s the last push you need to make it to the doors in time. Right before the receptionist tries to lock it.

Her key is in the door when you push it open, gasping for air, wiping the sweat from your eyes. The cool air from the vent hits you in the face, easing the burning pain in your face. 

“Excuse me.” The receptionist says, her face is twisted. “We’re closed for the night.”

You shake your head, breathing through your mouth as you look up at the clock on the wall, which is right above a bench. Good, you need to sit down, or you’re going to lay on the tile floor. You bet that it’s cold.

“You don’t close…” You manage to get out, trailing off for a few breaths. “For another ten minutes.”

She presses her lips together. “We’ve had a slow day, so we’re closing early today.”

“This is urgent.” You breathe. “I need to see Mayor Sybil.”

“You can come back and visit her on Monday.”

“Respectfully, that’s not happening.” You tell the receptionist. “We can waste time arguing, or you can just bring me to her.” 

She glares at you, but starts walking down the hallway, presumably to the mayor. You get off the bench, following her. It’s a fairly quiet walk, if you tune out the stomping of her heels against the floor. And the occasional annoyed sigh.

She stops in front of the mayor’s door, knocking on the wood next to the crystal glass as a courtesy, before swinging the door open without permission to enter.

Mayor Sybil must be used to this, or doesn’t care. She looks up from her rectangular glasses with raised eyebrows. She looks between you two for just a moment, and then a little smile comes to her face as she gets to her feet.

“Miss (L/n), to what do I owe this pleasure, tonight?” She asks.

“I’ve been wrongly accused.” You tell her, stepping inside of the room. You drop your jacket onto the chair in front of her desk. “And there’s proof.”

Sybil winces, beginning to tilt her head, which means she’s going to start doubting you, and you don’t necessarily blame her. For the longest time, you’d come to the Justice Building and beg for them to reconsider. Sybil knows your routine by now.

“Listen, (Y/n), you know—” She starts.

“No.” You cut her off, glancing at the receptionist. “I need to speak to Sybil in private.” You tell her, just before closing the door in her face. “Sybil, the Capitol has cameras on the street.”

When you look at her, you can see that she’s placed her glasses on the top of her head, rubbing her nose. “Go on.”

“The cameras should’ve caught the conversation between Finnick and the Peacekeepers, and there’s going to be audio to go along with it.” You pull out the chair, stepping around the arm to sit down. “Will you please get Paylor on the phone?”

“Promise me this isn’t a waste of time.” She says, sighing.

“I promise I’m not wasting your time.” You tell her.

—

“If I were you, I’d put the guns down.” Finnick advised in a calm, collected voice. “It wouldn’t be a very good idea to kill us on the street, unless you want to alert the people we’re with, of course. It could give them a good running head start.”

There was a tense silence that passed between you and Finnick and the Peacekeepers that had just evacuated the truck, large guns in their hands. Although, it’s not entirely obvious through the playback, because your faces are hidden from the camera because of the angle it’s sitting at. You have a perfect view of the Peacekeepers, though. 

“Who says we have orders to kill you?” The Peacekeeper shoots back. “We have orders from President Snow to take you by any means necessary.”

“That’s not a good idea, either.” Finnick’s voice is smug. You remember the smirk that was on his face. “If you try to take us by force, we’ll make sure our companions are aware you’re out here. Same cards dealt.”

You watch your past self shift nervously on her feet, shaking her head. Finnick doesn’t move from where he stands, arms still raised in the air. The Peacekeepers begin to create a half-circle around you two, because it was more important to bring some back to the mansion, instead of being empty handed.

“We can make a deal.” Finnick offered cooly, “If you’re willing to make one.”

“Like what?” The Peacekeeper humored him.

“I can tell you where you can catch all of us together.” He told them plainly. “We figured out there are too many Pods here on the street, because we have a device. We plan on going down into the sewers to evade the Pods. The best time to come and get us would be then, because it���s going to be a maze down there. And you’ll have the advantage.”

There’s a few gasps that fill the room you’re sitting in. Your face begins to twist, eyes focusing on the screen. Your past self lowers her arms, in the middle of realizing that Finnick is selling your group of friends out to save himself. And less importantly, you.

If only the people around you could see the horror that crossed your face in that moment. As you stood there hopelessly. It was too late to stop Finnick or save the situation. What could you do? Kill the Peacekeepers all by yourself? Claim Finnick was lying? 

For six months, you’ve been blamed for being a bystander if what you were claiming about Finnick was true, but it was never that simple. They would stand there dumbfounded, too.

“As long as you don’t interfere before we get to the apartment and down in the sewers, we won’t tell the squad about this encounter.” Finnick told them, keeping control of the situation. He lowered his arms, but you didn’t dare to move, watching as he held out his hand to shake the Peacekeeper’s, wanting to seal the deal.

In complete silence, they shake hands. “Let’s pack up and roll back to Headquarters.” The main Peacekeeper told the others, not bothering to acknowledge the conversation he’d just had with Finnick.

The two of you stood there and watched as they all got back inside of the armored truck, before driving down the block. They took the soonest left, and disappeared out of sight completely. It wasn’t until you were sure that they were gone, did you lower your arms.

Finnick began to lead the way back to the apartment, a gentle hand on your lower back to guide you down the sidewalk. After five minutes of total silence, he cleared his throat. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The camera angle changes because you’re leaving the view of the first one, and the audio is getting quieter. There’s a gap of silence as the microphone struggles to pick up the conversation, meaning it misses your entire response. Which consisted of something snarky and along the lines of, “What about them?”

The audio comes back in time to catch Finnick. “Don’t say anything to them about what happened. It’ll screw everything up, and put us back into danger.”

You tear your eyes from the television, swiveling around in your chair to find Finnick sitting across the room. All the color has been drained from his skin, face dropped entirely as his truth spills out. And this is only the beginning.

Finnick’s eyes flicker over to yours, you see that they’re watery. A smile comes to your face when you shake your head at him. This won’t work on you. You have no sympathy for the man that lied and got you shunned from the community of your home district. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You snapped at Finnick, disgusted. “They’re our friends, we’re supposed to be a team! We wouldn’t have made it this far without them!”

“This is what has to be done if you want to make it home.” Finnick told you. “We don’t have a choice. Now that they know where we’re going next, there’s no point in changing plans. The sewers are our best bet.”

“That’s not true anymore.” You seethed. “We’re over, Finnick. I can’t be with you.”

You raised your hand, waving him off when he tried to grab you. He let you take the first couple of steps away, and then loosely followed you from a distance to make sure he wouldn’t set you off. The camera follows you back to the apartment complex, where you go inside, and the feed ends.

You look around the room from person to person, finding most with solemn faces as they realize they trusted the wrong victor. President Paylor inhales, as if she’s going to speak, and then she lets it go with a shake of her head.

Even Plutarch has a grimace on his face, because this is not how they want to picture their darling Finnick Odair. After the sacrifice he made by telling Panem about his trauma, he should not be painted in this light. 

“It’s not tampered with.” Beetee breaks the silence, adjusting his glasses. “If any of you were wondering. It couldn’t have been, this is raw footage straight from the Capitol’s systems.” He laces his fingers in front of him on the table.

“I want this aired.” You tell Paylor, she locks eyes with you. “I want the entirety of Panem to know that Finnick is the heartless asshole that sold out the Star Squad, and that it wasn’t me.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” She tells you.

“Why’s that?” You ask her, eyebrow twitching upward briefly.

“There was no harm done.” 

A scoff leaves your mouth as you get to your feet, trying to be the same eye level as her, since she refused to sit in a chair. “No harm done?” You repeat. “Are you sure? His lies were aired on Katniss’s trial. Everyone in Panem was tuned in to hear it. He humiliated me, and none of you would fucking believe me when I told you the truth.”

“Unfortunately—“ Plutarch begins, trying to help Paylor.

“I got cast out of District Four, the place that I—“ You tap your fingers to your chest multiple times, “was born and raised in. My people think that I’m some monstrous traitor. They didn’t feel safe with me there. This whole time they’ve been sleeping beside a killer.” you spit.

“That’s enough.” Finnick says.

You point at him, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to decide when it’s enough. You’ve had plenty of chances—plenty of time—to come clean, and you know what you said? You told me, ‘It was the right move to make’. You make me fucking sick.”

Finnick raises his hands defensively. “You could’ve said something, yourself.” 

“If I wasn’t so afraid that you were going to turn on me, too, I would’ve.” You snap. When you turn back to face Paylor, you tilt your head. “You sent me to District Two, where all your castaways go. There, I learned that my childhood home was burnt to the fucking foundation because they believed him.

“Would you consider that ‘no harm done’?” You ask her. “I didn’t get any of my belongings after the war, because you told me that my valuables weren’t urgent or important and that you’d ’get around to it’. I don’t have any pictures of my dead family, Paylor!”

The room is silenced again as you breathe heavily, trying to blink the rising tears from your eyes. You will not cry over this. You will not cry in front of any of them. They can’t see how desperate you are.

“I have the right to a trial.” You tell her, once the lump has left your throat. “And I want one. I want Finnick to be put on trial. His guidance murdered several members of the Star Squad.” You look at Finnick. “Messalla, Jackson, Castor, Homes and Leeg were lost in the sewers because of him.”

Haymitch, who’s standing in the very back corner, looking worse for wear, lets out a loud sigh. “She’s right. Finnick needs to be held accountable.”

“Thank you, Haymitch.” You relax.

Paylor looks down at the ground, closes her eyes and says, “Finnick Odair is now in the custody of the Capitol for his interference with Project: Mockingjay.”

“Paylor.” Finnick tries to reason, but her guards move forward immediately, cuffs in hand.

“I told you that you’d regret this.” You say to Finnick, his face twists. “Your actions have consequences, and it’s time you learn that.”

[thatssosussex]

Colombia Day 2- The Duke and Duchess of Sussex and Vice President Márquez paid a memorable visit to Colegio La Giralda, a local public school in the Las Cruces neighborhood of the town of Santa Fe. Their visit was a celebration of education, emotional well-being, and community spirit, highlighting the remarkable initiatives and the dedicated people who make Colegio La Giralda possible. ⁣

⁣They were welcomed by Serafin Ordoñez, the Head of School, who led them on a thoughtful tour of the campus. They were then taken to La Giralda’s urban garden which aims to promote a culture of peace and respect for the environment. The garden promotes sustainability, cooperative work and beautification of the school together with students, families and the community. The Duke and Duchess planted a walnut tree alongside the Vice President to mark their visit and leave behind a lasting impact on the school community. ⁣

⁣And in adorable fashion, Meghan and Harry met with kindergarten students, working on puzzles and having conversations, with Meghan showcasing her Spanish skills. (8/16/24)😍🥰🥹

[dorkvania]

Neighborhood beautification in Portland

[themakeupbrush]

Miss Supranational Curaçao 2023 National Costume

KAYA KAYA

Kaya Kaya is a community building tool in Curaçao, focusing on the clean up & beautification of the 'Otrobanda' district. Kaya Kaya is a one day festival, however in the months leading up to the festival we engage and work together with the neighborhood to transform the area with art, colorful murals, music, culture and more. The Festival also aims at boosting the economic, social and cultural opportunities of the district by providing a platform for vendors and artists from- and outside the district. Celebrate 'Kaya Kaya' in Curaçao

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from The Revelator:

As more and more of Earth’s natural beauty gets paved over each year, one woman has made it her mission to capture the wonder of the world beyond the cityscape and inspire people to venture outside the concrete and steel.

Artist Sarah Yates, who works under the name Faunagraphic, is known for her massive murals: 20-foot-high wild birds or brilliantly rendered octopi with tentacles that snake along the bricks for a whole city block and transform what was once cold and lifeless into an enlightening expression of nature’s wonders.

“I love to paint small things on a large scale,” she says. “This wasn’t really a style when I first began as a graffiti artist. Most graffiti artists were painting letters, so at first I felt a bit like a black sheep. But I painted the birds I loved, and the public, in turn, loved my art.”

Faunagraphic’s work has been transformative for the cities and villages that have invited her to create colorful murals within their borders. Neighbors emerge from their cramped quarters, entranced by the sight of the mesmerizing imagery blooming in their neighborhood, waving at the smiling woman with wild auburn hair on her scaffold with her spray-paint cans. A child asks his mother what kind of bird she’s painting. The mother remembers the bird from when she was young and tells her child the story, saying they’ll have to go looking for the bird one day. The art’s spell has settled into the hearts and minds of the residents, a magic that they’ll take with them throughout the day, making them dream of a world without roads, wild and free and untainted by industry.

Environmentalism through art. Conservation through contemplative thought.

“I developed my style through painting the things I loved,” she says. “I have always loved game design, fantasy art, stories of magic, folklore, ancient history, future tech … I always wanted to have something within my work to keep me inside that imaginative place.”

Born in Blackburn, Lancashire, England, Yates discovered her passion for creating art with spray paint as a 19-year-old graphic design student. Over the next 15 years, Faunagraphic honed her craft of blending graphic elements with nature-related realism. It became her mission to advocate for the importance of the natural world through the beautification of urban developments.

“I love nature and the things that inspire us inside the woods — the feelings we get when walking through a forest path full of bluebells, bright green grasses, little birds shifting through the trees. I put myself in that place when I draw and try to surround myself with these things.”

Her audience easily interprets the message behind her art and advocacy: Embrace nature more.

“At times my message is more to remind people of how lucky we are and how beautiful and unique our planet is,” she remarks. “To value time, help others, and love each other. Our world has many issues, but nature is always at the core. When we have nothing and someone’s life is not going great, I hope only that they can find joy in nature, at least.”

[memecatwings]

so the hoa can make up rules for you? do they work for the local government? or how are they allowed to do that

HOAs have to be registered as corporations with the local county government but they are not part of the government and they can enforce their own rules as long as they dont contradict local laws. think of them as evil unions. everyone who lives in the neighborhood pays them a monthly fee (the fee depends on the size/location of the neighborhood) and they use that money for community projects such as pools, parks, trash pickup, beautification, expansion, etc. their job is essentially to keep the collective property value raised. for example, my HOA has rules about what color youre allowed to paint your house and how many trees you can have in your yard. if you want to do rennovations that impact the outside of your house you have to clear it with them first. my HOA also recently put heavy restrictions on rental houses to stop too many Airbnbs from popping up here. We get notices from our HOA all the time for not mowing our lawn often enough its a whole thing really. you could definitely find a ton of nightmare HOA stories out there theyre probably fascinating if youre looking at them from a non-american perspective.

[tonybannerblog]

Neighborhood beautification. 💜💜💜

@markruffalo

[ericgunther]

Palm Beach Island Takes Over as the Top Ultra-High-Net -Worth Property Market in the United States!

“Palm Beach is a niche market that consistently has the highest concentrations of appropriate properties and lifestyle for ultra-high-net-worth individuals,” says Eric Gunther President of Greenfield Waters Florida Realty on Worth Avenue Palm Beach.

Ultra-high-net-worth “UHNW”, is a level of ultra-luxury residential properties that trade for $50,000,000 or more. The market for these eight and nine-figure estates has significantly increased in the past ten years. 

New York, the Hamptons, Malibu, Los Angeles, Aspen, and Miami have all seen a sudden and profound transformation in the value of the most coveted properties. But nowhere in the U.S. compares to the small Island of Palm Beach which currently has 13 properties listed for sale asking over $50,000,000. This 16 mile long barrier island is a fraction of the size of its UHNW market peers, making the concentration of luxury real estate sales staggering over the comparatively small area. 

Over the last year of 2023, Florida’s two most expensive home sold on Palm Beach Island.  $170,000,000 was in first place at 589 North County Road Palm Beach, FL 33480 and $155,000,000 in second place at 1495 North Ocean Boulevard Palm Beach 33480 combined into a compound with 108 Mediterranean Road Palm Beach, FL 33480.

As the balance in middle market property prices and interest rates struggle to find common ground across the general U.S., solid activity in the Florida market and in the UHNW market of Palm Beach is understandable for emotional reasons but also backed by qualitative data. 

Buyers of properties in excess of several million dollars aren’t as affected by volatility in interest rates or the stock market like other buyers. Often paying in cash versus financing, these buyers see their real estate as tangible assets to be enjoyed but also bought, sold, and traded at the right times. 

Meanwhile, just across the Intracoastal waterway, select bordering neighborhoods of West Palm Beach are becoming “Palm Beach Island adjacent” with sales in excess of several million dollars being very normal.  Areas in West Palm such as Marina Park, El Cid, Howard Park, Phipps Park, and South of Southern (SOSO) are emerging in a very big way. As major financial firm and accompanying industries such as consulting, accounting, legal, and more keep moving to West Palm Beach, we expect these neighborhoods to continue growing in value and the beautification of Mediterranean revival and modern styled new construction homes. 

Palm Beach owners naturally enjoy the warm winters of our busiest season, when residents with multiple homes return for the climate. Many visitors come prepared to shop for real estate during this season making it ripe to sell for more. Spring and summer balance out the year as owners often list after enjoying a last winter season and demand to buy exits all year long in the Florida UHNW market. Typically, buyers even appreciate the downtime after buying so they can renovate and bring in the finest upgrades and décor of their personal choice which can take time after buying. 

This year more incredible properties are on the market and selling for more than anywhere else in the United States. Currently, the Island’s most expensive listing is 2.3 oceanfront vacant acres of land listed at $200,000,000 at 1063 and 1071 North Ocean Boulevard Palm Beach, FL 33480. They have 360 feet of width across the beachfront which is a rare luxury opportunity on The Island. These are owned by cosmetics heir William Lauder who listed the land on the market after buying the late Rush Limbaugh’s property. Both properties were torn down to achieve their amplified land value together. 

Traditionally, Palm Beach was perceived as a multigenerational closed circle. Today, this is no longer the case and sellers are aware of the vibrant new audience which needs to be reflected and focused on for marketing and advertising to sell a property of these price points in the economy of today. The Island does still maintain the exclusivity of high society, yet it's much more inclusive of people from a broader range of affluence, industries, and backgrounds which is very healthy.   

Here are five of our favorite finest properties on the market as of today on Palm Beach Island:

10 Tarpon Isle Palm Beach, FL 33480

Listed for $187,500,000

www.greenfieldwaters.com/search/details/1j5/0/

In 2021, Todd Glaser and his business partners made waves in the real estate world by acquiring the 2.3acre man-made Tarpon Island for a $85,000,000. After an extensive renovation, showcasing their commitment to luxury and opulence, they listed the island in 2022 for an eye-opening $218,000,000. Taking a strategic pause from the market which created incredible desire from real estate buyers, Glaser reentered the fray in November with an adjusted price. Originally designed by Howard Majors in 1930, the mansion underwent a dramatic transformation under Glaser's vision. Its footprint doubled to nearly 24,000 square feet, now boasting 11 bedrooms, 15 bathrooms, and 7 half-bathrooms. The property is a veritable oasis, featuring two pools, a dock, a lighted tennis court, a cold plunge, steam room, sauna, salon parlor, massage room, gym, and a catering kitchen. This embodiment of luxury living epitomizes the pinnacle of exclusivity and grandeur.

101 Jungle Road Palm Beach, FL 33480

Listed for $59,950,000

www.greenfieldwaters.com/search/details/1j9/0/

The oceanfront mansion of the late Gerald and Elaine Schuster has emerged on the market. Gerald Schuster, renowned as the founder and CEO of Continental Wingate, a prominent real estate investment and development firm now recognized as the Wingate Companies, leaves behind a legacy of industry excellence. Notably, the Schusters shared a longstanding friendship with political powerhouses, adding to the allure of their estate. Constructed in 1955 on a sprawling 0.9 acre plot along Jungle Road, the mansion encompasses an impressive 10,000 square feet, comprising 5 bedrooms and 8 bathrooms, according to property records. The price reflecs its prime oceanfront location spanning 200 feet of beachfront. With its rich history and unparalleled coastal charm, this estate represents a rare opportunity for discerning buyers seeking a slice of coastal luxury intertwined with prestige and influence.

315 Chapel Hill Road Palm Beach, FL 33480

Listed for $59,500,000

www.greenfieldwaters.com/search/details/1ja/0/

This waterfront estate, formerly owned by the late William Flaherty is an incredible property. Flaherty, a notable figure in the business world for founding the Horsehead Corporation, now recognized as American Zinc Recycling based in Pittsburg, passed away last year, leaving behind a remarkable legacy. Built in 1987 upon 0.8 acres of prime waterfront land, the estate boasts a 5,600 square foot main house adorned with 4 bedrooms, 6 bathrooms, and 1 half-bathroom, along with a charming 3,300 square foot guest house featuring 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. With its enviable position spanning 200 feet along the picturesque Intracoastal Waterway, this property presents an unparalleled opportunity for luxurious coastal living.

200 S Ocean Boulevard Palm Beach, FL 33480

Listed for $59,000,000

www.greenfieldwaters.com/search/details/1jn/0/

Earlier this month, David and Becky Gochman just listed their stunning oceanfront parcel. David Gochman's entrepreneurial journey includes the successful sale of his family's renowned sporting goods empire, Academy Sports & Outdoors, to the private equity firm KKR for a staggering $2,100,000,000 in 2011, as reported by Forbes. Following this achievement, he established Inclenberg Investments, based in Palm Beach, in 2012. The Gochmans' connection to luxury real estate began in 2014 when they acquired the South Ocean Boulevard property for $15,400,000 million, according to records. Demonstrating their commitment to refinement and elegance, they embarked on the construction of a new residence on the expansive 0.9 acre parcel in 2018. The resulting masterpiece spans 5,800 square feet, boasting 6 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, and 1 pool, offering an unparalleled blend of coastal splendor and modern luxury.

690 Island Drive Palm Beach, FL 33480

Listed for $52,900,000

www.greenfieldwaters.com/search/details/1jo/0/

Situated on the picturesque Everglades Island, Diana Barrett has unveiled her exquisite waterfront residence, designed by the esteemed Marion Sims Wyeth. Constructed in 1949 on a lush 0.8 acre parcel, the house epitomizes timeless elegance and sophistication. Spanning 6,300 square feet, the residence boasts 4 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms, 1 half-bathroom, and 1 luxurious pool. Notably, Barrett's illustrious background includes tenure as a former professor, while her husband, Bob Vila, is renowned as the star of the beloved renovation show "This Old House." Furthermore, demonstrating their affinity for Palm Beach's charm, the couple recently acquired a 4,300 square foot house for $12,500,000 million in December, further solidifying their connection to the area's prestigious real estate landscape.

About Greenfield Waters Florida Realty

When it comes to navigating the intricate world of luxury real estate, Eric Gunther and Greenfield Waters Florida Realty located on Worth Avenue Palm Beach stand out as the premier choice for buyers and sellers alike. With a profound understanding of the market dynamics and a specialization in properties exceeding several million dollars, Greenfield Waters and their Realtors possess the intelligence, sophistication, and unwavering commitment necessary to cater to the discerning needs of high net worth individuals. Whether it's meticulously scouting for the perfect property or orchestrating seamless transactions, Greenfield Waters ensures a tailored experience that exceeds expectations, making him the trusted ally in Palm Beach's elite real estate realm.

Are you curious what your Florida property may be worth right now?  Feel free to try our complimentary special Florida specific valuation instantly online at https://www.greenfieldwaters.com/home-value/

Here to advise as always, 

Eric Gunther

President – Broker – Realtor

561-400-8474

eric.gunther@greenfieldwaters.com

Greenfield Waters

Florida Realty

205 Worth Avenue #125

Palm Beach, FL 33480

www.greenfieldwaters.com

Thank you for sharing our blog posts, articles and for your referral business! 

[cymlea]

Williamsburg Bridge Community Art and Beautification: Local artists and community groups often engage in art and beautification projects near the bridge, adding to its cultural significance and contributing to neighborhood pride.

Civic Activism: The bridge has also been a gathering point for civic activism, where residents and advocacy groups have come together to voice concerns, promote change, and highlight important social and political issues.

Urban Symbolism: Beyond its practical function, the Williamsburg Bridge symbolizes the dreams and aspirations of countless individuals who have crossed it in pursuit of opportunities, dreams, and a better life in New York City.

[ancientpillarsoflori]

DISARSTAR - NICHTMAL DAS MINDESTE (NOT EVEN THE LEAST)

on hostile architecture and the housing crisis in hamburg, germany.

(german with subtitles, english translation below)

What's up? My name is Disarstar.

In Germany, on of the richest countries in the world, around 50.000 people live on the street according to official statistics. The number of under-reported cases should be significantly larger, because people who are cooped up in emergency accommodation under inhumane conditions are skillfully subtracted from those numbers.

The number of unhoused people who are not living on the street is many times higher than that. Up to 1.600 crimes against unhoused people are documented per year, many more are not being recorded.

Last winter, at least 23 unhoused people froze to death on the streets of the republic. Stress is on 'at least' and the people dying from heat, who dont make it through the hot summers, don't make it into the statistics.

((phonecall) Ok, no, were coming, and then? Then we're really doing this. See you.)

"No one has to be homeless in Germany," the enlightened neoliberals like to say, drinking sparkling wine with their breakfast. However, the life crisis of homlessness can strike almost anyone. There is no right to accommodation in Germany, and those who can't pay their rent end up on the street.

Without an apartment, you hardly find work, and without work, hardly an apartment. And as everyone who ever had to search [for an apartment] knows: Even under the right conditions it is hard to find one. Despite there being vacant apartments for speculation on every corner.

(sawing)

Living on the street means falling through the cracks, being in a downward spiral of stress, which takes over the day and all capacities, and from which, if at all, it is very difficult to find a way out.

Living on the street, you are much more likely to become a victim of violence, a victim of exclusion and expulsion, a victim of harassment by the police. For those affected, the state only acts as a barrier.

I have been living in Sankt Pauli [a neighborhood of Hamburg] for over ten years, and in this time alone, I have witnessed the massive development / beautification of the city center for investors and tourists, that leaves less and less space for the homeless.

This is why 'resourceful' democrats come up with things like one-way rubbish bins, to make people collecting redeemable/returnable bottles disappear from the cityscape. They run loud, annoying music at train stations, so no one will stay there longer than necessary. And they attach brackets and other tools of harrassment to benches and lying surfaces, so that no one can get comfortable there.

Unhoused people who - according to neoliberal ideology - are solely to blame for their own situtation, disturb the urban idyll.

Of course, all of this is deeply inhumane / misanthropic. And of course this is not about solving a problem in a solution-oriented way. It is solely about repression and expulsion. Out of sight, out of mind.

Unhoused people aren't even granted the dirt under their fingernails. And this action isn't even the least.

(donation information for cafeemitherz.de)

[okadaizoirl]

choose your own adventure! by alex!

you come to a crossroads. there are three paths.

the leftmost path is an overgrown mess. the path is trodden dirt, but it leads into an impossible brush anyone else would likely take a blade to. but you don't have a blade. you have hands! there are thorns, the vines tangle often, but you can make your way, right?

the middle path is a sidewalk. it's the sidewalk you're on now, in a neighborhood you feel like you grew up in, but you didn't. it just feels that way in a nagging part of your brain. it takes you down the rows of houses, trees haphazardly strewn about from the remains of a beautification project. the houses look just distinct enough to pick out if you know someone who lives in the neighborhood.

the rightmost path is the road itself. you can cut across and just run down the asphalt and head directly into town. nobody's awake, but the stores are open. there are no cars even parked in lots, but a cursory search shows every nearby business as being open. in fact, it says everywhere is now open 24 hours. the only placed closed is the local waffle house.

[dpr-lahore-division]

With compliments from, The Directorate General Public Relations,

Government of the Punjab, Lahore Ph. 99201390.

No.1280

HANDOUT (A)

CM Maryam Nawaz Sharif Chairs Performance Review Meeting of Rawalpindi Division

 

Lahore, 20 December 2024: Chief Minister Punjab Maryam Nawaz Sharif chaired a special meeting for a detailed briefing on the performance of Rawalpindi Division as per Key Performance 

Indicators (KPIs). The authorities concerned presented her a report in the matter. She congratulated the commissioners of Sargodha and Rawalpindi divisions for their good performance on ground.

 

Madam Chief Minister directed the district administrations to develop green belts around underpasses and under overhead bridges in all major cities. She also directed them to beautify the overhead bridges and underpasses in all cities including Lahore and Rawalpindi.

 

Chief Minister Maryam Nawaz Sharif directed to install cat eyes along with Zebra crossing on roads in front of educational institutions. She also directed them to effectively improve monitoring of the ongoing development projects. She said,”Install plastic covers on manholes, and

continuously monitor the cleanliness and prices of essential commodities.”

 

Madam Chief Minister directed to remove encroachments on permanent basis. She said,”People should see a clear difference in the improvement of governance.” She added,”Bring improvements in public affairs every day, and special attention should be paid to the beautification of cities.” She highlighted,”The number of model cart markets should be increased in big cities.”

 

Chief Minister Maryam Nawaz Sharif said,”Potholes should not be seen on roads in cities and neighborhoods.” She added,”The process of cleaning the drains in Murree should be carried on continuously.” She underscored,”Welcome signboards in Murree should be installed at the entrances to the city.”

 

Madam Chief Minister said,”Significant steps should be taken for the beautification of Rawalpindi city.” Deputy Commissioners of Rawalpindi, Jhelum, Murree and Chakwal presented her with reports as per the KPIs. She appreciated the establishment of an excellent library in Chakwal DPS, and the construction of a historical monument of World War I in Chakwal city. She also congratulated Deputy Commissioner Murree for building autism classrooms in Murree Special Education School.

**  **

[adhdnursegoat]

Chapter 4

Word Count: 14.4

Content Warning: none right now

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Jack Ryder: "Good morning, Gotham! It's 6:00 AM on January 11th, 2013, and you're watching Gotham City News. III'm Jack Ryder."

Summer Gleeson: "And I'm Summer Gleeson. Starting your Friday off right with the news you need—"

Jack Ryder: (interrupting with a smirk) "-and maybe a little news you don't. Like how I prefer my ladies how I like my liquor—intoxicating and bad for my health—in case anyone out there is wondering." (winks)

Summer Gleeson: (rolling her eyes with a laugh) "Right, because that's exactly what Gotham tuned in to hear. Don’t do it ladies, a real walking red flag over here.” (jerks thumb to her partner before shifting in her seat, becoming more serious) “Today, let’s start with Mayor Hamilton Hill's latest initiative, or as some are calling it, his latest attempt to win brownie points before reelection season."

Jack Ryder: "You’re referring to his new ‘Community Clean-Up Program,’ right? Mayor Hill has announced the allocation of $500,000 to fund neighborhood beautification efforts in lower-income areas. That includes fixing potholes, planting trees, and—wait for it—installing decorative streetlights. Because what says 'safe Gotham streets' more than better-lit crime scenes?"

Summer Gleeson: "Hill says it's about 'restoring pride in our neighborhoods.' And while it’s a nice sentiment, critics are pointing out the glaring issue: no amount of flowers or freshly painted benches is going to stop the rising crime rates. Concerns are growing over his administration’s lack of action against Gotham’s criminal underworld, with many residents saying this is just a single band-aid for several bullet wounds."

Jack Ryder: (leaning back smugly) "But hey, at least those bullet wounds will be framed by lovely begonias."

Summer Gleeson: (shaking her head) "Moving on, though, not everyone is waiting for City Hall to act. Gotham’s own Dark Knight continues his crusade against crime. Last night, Batman was reportedly seen stopping a hostage situation in Coventry."

Jack Ryder: "That’s right. The vigilante saved three employees trapped inside a late-night pharmacy after a robbery turned violent. While many are calling him a hero, as always, there are those who criticize his methods, describing them as overly brutal and, let’s be honest, a little melodramatic."

Summer Gleeson: (nodding earnestly) "Still, it’s hard to argue with the results. For some, he represents the only hope left in Gotham. Let us know what you think—hero or menace? Share your thoughts on our website at www.GCN.org/Batman."

Jack Ryder: (grinning) "I’m calling it now—‘no capes’ is going to be trending by lunchtime."

Summer Gleeson: (adopting a more serious tone) "Well, Jack, humor aside, it’s hard to ignore that the city’s problems are growing more dire. Gothamites are looking for hope wherever they can find it. Just this morning, we received a troubling report about another missing young woman. Janice Owens, 19 years old"—(a photo appears on screen of a smiling young woman with dark curls and bright eyes)—"a student at Gotham University, was reported missing after a party last weekend. Friends say she was last seen leaving the event alone, and no one has heard from her since. If you have any information about Janice, please call 201-551-HELP or visit www.gcn.org/findjanice."

Jack Ryder: (softening, but keeping his tone light to ease the tension) "And if you see someone wandering around in socks and sandals, Summer, that’s your first suspect right there."

Summer Gleeson: (biting back a smile) "Jack, this is serious."

Jack Ryder: (grinning) "I’m just saying, Gotham’s fashion crimes are almost as bad as its real ones. Almost."

Summer Gleeson: (suppressing a chuckle) "Well, let’s lighten things up before we go. In some good news, Gotham Zoo has welcomed a new addition to its penguin exhibit: a fluffy chick, hatched just yesterday. The zoo is asking for name suggestions, and the top contenders include Waddles, Snowball—

The screen abruptly cut to black as Edward Nashton’s finger pressed the TV remote power button.

The device clattered onto the desk without a glance from him, sliding to the side and forgotten as his focus remained laser-sharp on the glowing monitors surrounding him. Strings of code and complex algorithms flashed across the screens in rhythmic chaos, a language only he could interpret. His mind hummed with activity, far removed from Gotham’s morning fluff or the platitudes of its ineffectual mayor.

With a quiet scoff, Edward muttered, “‘Beautification’... Ridiculous.”

He leaned back momentarily, the chair’s worn springs creaking under him. A half-eaten piece of toast, gone cold, sat abandoned alongside a mug of coffee that had long gone stale. On the desk beside him, a cigarette smoldered, its faint, acrid scent mingling with the stagnant air of the room. A thin wisp of smoke curled lazily upward, occasionally dissipating when a chilly breeze drifted in through the cracked window.

This space, officially designated as the second guest room, was anything but welcoming. The walls were bare, painted in an uninspired off-white that did nothing to soften the harsh glare of the fluorescent desk lamp overhead. There was no art, no photographs, no hint of personality or warmth—just a single shelf crammed with books, binders, and puzzles, and a desk overflowing with tools, cables, and scraps of paper: organized chaos.

The hum of his computers was a soothing lullaby, the rapid flicker of code on his monitors more invigorating than any rest. He typed furiously, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. Each burst of keystrokes was punctuated by the occasional satisfying click of a compiled program or decrypted file. The light from the screens reflected in his glasses, casting faint, distorted patterns onto his pale face, taut with focus and intensity.

He hadn’t slept. He didn’t care. Sleep was an inconvenience, a weakness he rarely indulged. What others called exhaustion, he framed as clarity—his sharpest insights always seemed to arrive in these quiet, liminal hours when the city was dormant, the world still, and his thoughts could run unchecked.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath, a sharp grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Even Gotham’s most ambitious criminals couldn’t hide their tracks from him.

He had been working on the response time case for weeks now, piecing together data Loeb and the other incompetents at the precinct would never bother to analyze. Dispatch logs, call center records, GPS coordinates from patrol units—all of it fed into his custom algorithm, meticulously designed to reveal the systemic rot buried within GCPD’s operations.

And it was working.

His monitors flashed with heat maps of Gotham, clusters of data points glowing brighter in certain areas. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as a string of data scrolled across his main monitor, a new pattern emerging amidst the chaos. His eyes zeroed in on flagged areas. The response times there were staggering—calls for help going unanswered for fifteen, twenty, even thirty-two minutes—if they were answered at all.

Meanwhile, similar incidents in neighborhoods like The Diamond District, Coventry, or Burnley received near-immediate attention. The contrast was glaring, and Edward felt a rush of satisfaction as his algorithm highlighted another anomaly. He tapped a key and fished for his cigarette while a series of flagged reports loaded. He took a drag, exhaling slowly as the results appeared: assaults, missing persons, .

In The Narrows, Park Row, Old Gothem, The Bowery and The Cauldron, these cases didn’t just take longer to respond to—they often disappeared entirely, the reports either “misplaced” or buried in backlogged paperwork. Patterns emerged, each one pointing to the same damning conclusion: Gotham’s police force prioritized the protection of the wealthy while leaving its most vulnerable citizens to fend for themselves.

He tapped ash into an overfull tray, his mind racing as he followed the digital breadcrumb trail. It was intoxicating—the hunt, the thrill of unraveling secrets buried in plain sight. There was nothing else like it. Every click, every discovery, was another piece of the puzzle falling into place, another thread of corruption exposed.

But it wasn’t just the response times that interested him. It was the timing, the frequency. A subtle spike in calls around specific hours—late evenings, early mornings. Patterns that aligned too neatly to be coincidence.

Edward’s fingers paused, hovering over the keys as his mind spun, piecing together the implications. He hadn’t turned this information over to Loeb yet. Not because he couldn’t, but because he wasn’t ready to let go of the thrill of discovery. Loeb didn’t deserve the credit, anyway. No, Edward would give him the data when the time was right—when it was undeniable, unassailable, a perfect storm of facts that would either force Loeb to act or reveal his complicity.

Edward shifted in his chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before he typed a name into the GCPD employee files (which no one knew he had access to):

Jack Hartley.

The query pulled at him like a loose thread, one he felt compelled to unravel. It wasn’t just about the man’s audacity—though Edward found Hartley’s overconfidence grating in the extreme—it was the way Hartley carried himself. The swagger, the smirk, the casual sense of entitlement. It irritated Edward in ways he couldn’t fully articulate, and irritation demanded answers.

The first results were standard fare: employment records, a GCPD personnel file, patrol routes, commendations for “bravery” during an apprehension in The Bowery three years ago. Edward snorted at that. Bravery? More likely brute force or sheer dumb luck.

He tapped a few keys, bypassing a surface-level firewall to access more detailed internal records. His lips curled into a faint smirk—so much for GCPD security.

Hartley’s disciplinary file was sparse but not empty. A single flagged report caught Edward’s attention:

Complaint filed by a civilian.

Allegation: Excessive use of force.

Status: Dismissed.

Edward’s fingers hovered over the keys. Dismissed? Of course, it was. Most complaints like this vanished under the weight of red tape or cronyism. Hartley wouldn’t be the first officer to benefit from a system designed to protect its own.

Still, it was a lead. Edward’s eyes narrowed as he dug deeper, cross-referencing Hartley’s name with incident reports and internal communications. Patterns began to emerge—subtle, but visible to someone who knew where to look.

Hartley’s name was tied to a disproportionate number of incidents in The Narrows, Gotham’s red-light district. Those nagging, lagging response times, assaults, questionable arrests, and more than a few vague, unexplained “interventions.” Edward’s scowl deepened as he pulled up Hartley’s patrol logs. He saw the gaps immediately—times when Hartley was unaccounted for, “off-route,” with nothing to show for it in the official records. No arrests, no reports, just blank spots in his timeline.

Edward leaned closer to the monitor, tossing his cigarette butt toward the ashtray. Where were you, Officer Hartley? What were you doing?

He dug further, following the digital breadcrumbs with the precision of a surgeon. Each file, each string of data, was another piece of the puzzle, another thread in the tapestry of Gotham’s corruption.

A flagged entry caught his eye—an arrest made by Hartley in The Narrows, just over six months ago. The details were sparse, almost deliberately so, but the key points stood out: charges filed against the arrestee were dropped within 48 hours.

That alone would have been suspicious, but it was the name that made Edward’s fingers pause over the keys. The arrestee? A known associate of Black Mask—Jeremy Ritter.

Edward’s brows furrowed as his mind processed the connection, dots aligning faster than his screen could refresh. An arrest like that should have made waves, especially given Roman Sionis’s reputation. Instead, it had vanished into the void, scrubbed clean of any official scrutiny. Hartley’s involvement, paired with the rapid dismissal of charges, suggested something far more deliberate than mere incompetence.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping another cigarette loose from the pack and lighting it. The sharp scent filled the room as he took a drag, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips while he leaned forward again, diving deeper into the data. The implications were tantalizing, a thread he couldn’t resist pulling.

Exiting the GCPD server, Edward pivoted, running a full background check on Jack Hartley. It took mere seconds for the first wave of data to populate his screen:

Education: High school diploma, minimal academic achievement.

Military Experience: Served in the army, honorable discharge with a medal of valor.

Edward snorted. A "hero," then. Of course.

He dug deeper, combing through public records and local news archives. Something caught his attention—a police report filed two years ago. Arrest for domestic assault. The victim? A girlfriend at the time.

Edward’s lips curled into a cold grin as he opened the file, scanning the sparse details. Charges dropped. No surprise there. He didn’t need to see the rest to know what likely happened: intimidation, pressure, and a system designed to protect men like Hartley.

The grin widened as Edward switched focus, pulling up more personal details:

Current address: Apartment in Coventry. 1701 33rd Ave, apt 25, Gotham, New Jersy 23537

Financial records: A trail of minor but telling inconsistencies—cash deposits that didn’t align with his salary, credit card transactions placing him in areas of Gotham he shouldn’t have been patrolling.

Edward tapped ash into the tray, flicking the butt with his thumb. His monitors flashed with the growing dossier on Hartley, the pieces of the man’s life falling into place in stark, damning detail.

Hartley wasn’t just a nuisance. He was a liability. A jarhead with a violent streak and a penchant for cutting corners when it suited him. And now, with his potential proximity to Sionis, Hartley was also a potential informant—or worse, an asset to one of Gotham’s most dangerous crime lords.

His grin sharpened, his mind racing with possibilities. This was more than just satisfying curiosity. Hartley’s connections, his history, his patterns—they were all data points, pieces of a larger puzzle.

He added the information to his growing compilation—every flagged incident, every suspicious deposit, every loose end waiting to unravel. By the time he was finished, Edward knew Hartley would never cross his path again.

“Oh, Hartley, Hartley,” he muttered to himself, the faint edge of a grin tugging at his lips. With a few taps, he powered down his personal computer.

The more he uncovered, the clearer the picture became. Hartley wasn’t just another mediocre cop puffed up by his own sense of self-importance. He was worse—a cog in Gotham’s corrupt machine. A man who used his badge as leverage, whether for power, profit, or both.

Edward stubbed out his cigarette, pushing away from the desk before closing the cracked window. Within a few minutes, he tossed his toast, brushed his teeth, spritzed on cologne to mask the smell, and grabbed his coat and scarf. He clipped his keys to his belt loop, checked his phone—no notifications—the background as generic as it had been since he’d bought it.

Another day, another mess to untangle.

And then there was Romy.

Edward exhaled sharply at the thought, slipping his cigarettes, phone, and wallet into his pocket as he stepped out into Gotham’s cold morning air. She would be waiting at the precinct, no doubt eager to piss him off. Edward shook his head, trying to shove the thought aside.

The truth was, for all her confidence and wit, she was still a student—a fledgling in a field he had mastered. And yet, something about the way she worked, the way she challenged him, gnawed at him. It got under his skin, poking at places he didn’t even know were tender.

The streets of Gotham buzzed faintly as Edward trudged toward the GCPD, the hum of traffic and distant sirens blending into a white noise that filled his mind.

He had never wanted this. To precept Romy. To precept anyone. The very idea of teaching someone felt like a cosmic joke—especially after the years he spent tormenting his own teachers.

Edward had taught himself everything he knew. Beyond the basics hammered into him in elementary school, he had quickly realized he didn’t need the people at the front of the classroom. Most of them hadn’t understood the material as well as he did.

He remembered the shift vividly. At first, he had been the quiet student, the one who raised his hand only when he was sure the answer was correct. But then, there had been the first time he had corrected a teacher—a simple arithmetic mistake during a lecture. The teacher had dismissed him, brushing it off like an irrelevant interruption. But Edward had been right.

That dismissal had ignited something in him.

It had started small: muttered quips under his breath when a teacher had fumbled through an explanation, little digs that had earned scattered laughter from classmates. But it had grown quickly. He had begun questioning everything, openly challenging authority figures in the most obnoxious way possible. His corrections hadn’t been polite—they had been biting, precise, and delivered with an air of superiority that had made it clear he didn’t just think he was smarter than them. He had known it.

Chemistry teachers who couldn’t balance equations. History teachers who had glossed over inaccuracies. Geometry teachers who hadn’t understood the proofs they were assigning. Edward had exposed them all, one by one, with the kind of cold precision that had earned him grudging respect from his peers and thinly veiled disdain from his teachers.

And the worst part? He had thrived on it.

He remembered the looks on their faces—the tight-lipped frustration, the feigned patience as they had tried to maintain control of their classrooms. He had remembered the way they had fumbled for explanations, trying to regain the upper hand, and how he had already had the answer, waiting, like a loaded weapon.

Edward Franklin Nashton hadn’t needed teachers—not when he had known everything.

But that hadn’t been enough for his father.

“Do it yourself, Edward,” the man had barked, his breath heavy with the stench of beer and cigarettes. “Don’t expect anyone to hand you anything. You want something? You earn it.”

The hypocrisy of it still churned in Edward’s gut. His father, the bloated, useless excuse for a man, who had never lifted a finger to improve his own life, had dared to demand perfection from his son.

Edward had learned early that the world wouldn’t help him. If anything, it would try to drag him down, to shove him into the same mediocrity everyone else wallowed in. So he had taught himself, rising above the noise and filth around him through sheer force of will.

And now, he was supposed to teach Romy.

Romy, with her smartass mouth and maddening persistence. Romy, who seemed to question him as much as he had questioned others, as though she had the right.

Edward’s scowl deepened as he approached the GCPD, the looming building a monument to the incompetence and corruption he had worked so hard to distance himself from.

He didn’t like her. He didn’t want to like her. And the way she approached problems, the way she wasn’t intimidated by him or his intellect—it unsettled him. There was something in her that reminded him of something—someone.

And he hated it.

Just as he planted a foot on the precinct steps, his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He didn’t miss a beat, continuing his ascent to the top step as he pulled it out and answered.

“Nashton,” he said, his voice clipped, already bordering on exasperated.

The voice on the other end was brisk and professional—one of the precinct’s administrators. “We’ve got a situation. Vincent Carlyle. We need you on-site for a search warrant—suspect laptop, sensitive data, the works. High stakes.”

Edward listened without breaking stride, pushing through the precinct’s heavy glass doors and into the cacophony of fluorescent lights, ringing phones, and overlapping conversations. The administrator rattled off an address.

Carlyle.

The name stuck, tugging at the edges of his memory. Some kind of hedge fund manager. Edward’s lips twitched in a faint grimace. The type of man who probably thought himself untouchable, hidden behind layers of encryption and NDAs. Idiots like that always made the most satisfying targets.

He rolled his eyes, glancing at his watch as he sidestepped a cluster of uniforms loitering near the bullpen. 07:13. Traffic would be terrible.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he replied curtly, ending the call without waiting for acknowledgment. The phone slipped back into his pocket as he continued his path through the precinct, his mind already dividing itself between Carlyle’s laptop and the growing annoyance that was Romy Winslow.

If nothing else, this would be a distraction—a reprieve from the tangled mess she was making of his carefully ordered life. His scowl deepened at the thought.

Edward shook his head, forcing his focus back to the task at hand. Carlyle. Laptop. Sensitive data. High stakes.

As he neared his office, he considered his approach. Should he leave her behind entirely, trusting she’d remain occupied? Or should he drag her along, hoping the field trip would appease her incessant pestering? Neither option seemed particularly appealing. No, he would make her stay here. Yes, there would be less to worry about and a brief reprieve from her. He could only hope Romy would actually stay quiet today, buried in whatever busywork he assigned her. But something deep in his gut told him that was wishful thinking. She didn’t have it in her.

There was a certain energy about her—a need to push, to probe, to test boundaries—he could already tell. 

Edward exhaled sharply as he reached for the door handle, steeling himself for whatever chaos the day would bring.

Sure enough, there she was—the thorn in his side, the perpetual disruption to his carefully constructed routine. Romy was seated at her desk, wired earbuds in, looking entirely too comfortable in a space that belonged to him and him alone. She was a sight that stuck out against the room like a sore thumb. Edward’s eyes lingered for half a second, cataloging the details without conscious effort.

Wednesday, lavender. Yesterday, gray and green. Today, a mix of the two. Her turtleneck was a soft lavender, tucked neatly into a gray skirt that fell just above her knees. And, of course, she was wearing those thigh-high stockings again, paired with knee-high black boots. Edward’s scowl deepened.

Did she own any pants at all?

The thought irritated him, though he couldn’t quite say why. Perhaps it was the impracticality of it. Gotham was freezing this time of year, and yet she walked around as if immune to the cold. Her hair was draped across and behind her shoulders that day, smooth and deliberate in its placement. Another detail he wished he hadn’t noticed.

Edward exhaled sharply, a sigh meant more for himself than for her, and strode into his office. He didn’t bother to announce his arrival. The click of the door, the scuff of his shoes against the floor—those were enough. As he moved past her desk, the faint trace of her perfume caught his attention. Floral, that time. Something light, subtle, but still noticeable enough to pull him from his thoughts for just a moment.

Why did she always disrupt everything? Even when she was silent, she was a distraction.

Edward spared her a brief glance, his eyes flicking toward her and then away just as quickly, as though acknowledging her any further would give her the satisfaction of knowing she had taken up space in his mind.

That day would be different. That day, she would not get under his skin.

Without a word, Edward strode into his workspace, setting his bag down on the desk with more force than necessary. The thud reverberated through the quiet room, cutting through the faint hum of electronics. He didn’t bother removing his coat or unpacking anything—he’d just have to put it all back on soon enough.

The sound of drawers opening and closing filled the space as he moved around with clipped efficiency, gathering what he needed.

It was only when he started making enough noise that Romy finally looked up. She pulled an earbud out, tilting her head to the side as if she had just noticed him. That infuriating half-smirk of hers was already in place.

“Good morning, Mr. Nashton.”

Edward didn’t respond. He simply continued rummaging, pulling out an external hard drive, a toolkit, and a few other necessities. He placed them on his desk with precise movements, methodically packing them into his bag.

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

“Collecting equipment,” he replied curtly, his focus unwavering.

“For…?”

He doesn't pause his movements. “Got a call for some fieldwork.”

At that, she sat up straighter. “Ooh, a field trip. Where are we going?”

Edward froze for a split second before continuing. “Fieldwork,” he snipped. “Not a field trip. And we aren’t going anywhere. I’m going. Alone.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a mock pout. “Why so secretive, Mr. Nashton? What kind of super-important work are you up to?”

He sighed, zipping the bag shut with deliberate force. “Investigating a laptop belonging to an idiot who thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“Cool. Let me grab my stuff.”

“You are not coming,” he snapped, spinning to face her.

“Why not?” she shot back, adding a subtle pout that Edward refused to acknowledge. “This is supposed to be a learning experience, right? What better way to learn than by watching the brilliant Mr. Edward Nashton in action?”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening, the muscles working as he gritted his teeth. Was she trying to appeal to his ego? Was she trying to challenge him? Goad him into proving himself?

The thought gnawed at him, and Edward narrowed his eyes slightly, scanning Romy’s expression for any hint of mockery or insincerity. Her words seemed deliberate—too deliberate. Was this calculated? A ploy to manipulate him?

If it was—it was working.

And he hated it.

The idea of her following him, asking endless questions, disrupting his carefully ordered flow—it was maddening. Absolutely maddening. But the look on her face told him everything he needed to know.

Part of him realized that maybe it was not a good idea to leave her there alone. There was no telling what she could ruin or break in his absence. He took a deep breath. Yes, no matter how much he hated the idea of babysitting her, he would much rather deal with that than the aftermath of her subsequent meddling.

Plus, she wasn’t going to back down.

She hasn’t in the three days he’s known her.

Edward exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp and clipped. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice heavy with exasperation.

“Cool.” The grin that spread across Romy’s face was infuriatingly self-assured, her confidence somehow amplifying his irritation. “Love a good field trip.”

“Work. Fieldwork. We are working. Not taking a fun little trip.”

Edward sighed sharply, the weight of his decision already pressing down on him. He slung the bag over his shoulder, heading for the door and outside without waiting to see if she’d follow. Of course, she did. The telltale click of her boots against the linoleum floor trailed after him, each step like a needle pricking at his patience. He took a brief detour to sign out a set of keys for one of the department’s unmarked vehicles.

By the time the two of them reached the precinct parking lot, Edward’s irritation had only grown. He headed toward the row of vehicles with purposeful strides, his coat flaring at his sides as he moved. He stopped by one of the sedans, pulling the key fob from his pocket. “Get in,” he said curtly, opening the passenger side door without looking at her.

“So demanding,” Romy quipped, sliding into the seat with a grin. In his periphery, he watched as she swung her legs inside, noting the black trench coat she wore, and the matching Michael Kors bag. Edward ignored the comment, snapped the door shut, and rounded the car to slip into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. The faint scent of stale coffee and vinyl filled the car.

As he started the engine, she settled in beside him. He didn’t even look at her as he muttered, “If you so much as breathe too loudly, I will throw you out of this car.”

She smirked, clearly unbothered by his sharp tone. “Noted.”

The drive began in silence. The hum of the engine filled the cabin, accompanied by the honks of traffic around them and the occasional squeak of the suspension as the car navigated Gotham’s congested streets. Edward’s eyes remained fixed on the road, but even as he focused on the task at hand, he was acutely aware of Romy sitting beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her—her expression calm, as if this were just a leisurely outing. He hated it. Hated how her presence shifted the energy in the car, how it disrupted the careful balance of his focus, his life. She was too calm, too composed, as if she were waiting for something—or worse, planning something.

This was going to be a long day.

The silence stretched on, taut and heavy, until it felt almost unbearable. And then, as if on cue, Romy sighed—a long, exaggerated exhale. Edward’s lips pulled into a flat line. He had told her not to breathe. Without a word, she reached forward, her hand hovering over the radio controls before twisting the knob and tuning the station. The soft static faded, replaced by the upbeat rhythm of a pop station.

“What what, what, what. What what, what, what—”

Edward blinked.

Then, he reached forward and cut the radio off with a sharp jab of his finger, his eyes never leaving the road. For a moment, there was quiet again. But then, as if testing him, Romy turned it back on.

“I’m gonna pop some tags—”

Edward scowled. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, but his hand moved with the same deliberate precision as he shut it off again.

She waited a beat before reaching forward once more. The pop music resumed, the silly notes filling the car, mocking him.

“...walk into the club like, ‘What up, I got a big cock—’”

His hand shot out, slamming the power button harder than necessary.

She reached—

“Touch it again,” he hissed, “and I will turn this car around and drop your little ass on the precinct steps.” He cast her a brief side-eye, his lips pulled tight over his teeth.

Romy paused for a beat, her hand hovering over the radio controls. And then, with a slow, deliberate grin, she leaned back in her seat. “Alright, whatever you say, daddy,” she purred.

In response, Edward’s breath caught. It was faint, barely noticeable, but it was there—a tightening low in his abdomen that he most definitely had not asked for, nor did he welcome. His posture stiffened immediately, his spine snapping straighter against the seat.

No. Absolutely not.

For a moment, it was as though his brain stalled, caught between processing Romy’s words and the way she had said them. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, fingerless gloves squeaking. His eyes darted to her, just for a second, but it was enough to catch the amused glint in her verdant gaze and the deliberate twitch of her smirk. He snapped his attention back to the road immediately.

He cleared his throat, the sound coming out squeaky. Edward’s pulse felt heavier. “Don’t—” he started, his voice tighter than he’d like. But the words faltered, falling flat before they could fully form. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? How did you even respond to something so—so absurd, so wildly inappropriate, so Romy? “Were you dropped on your head as a child? What is wrong with you?” he finally snapped.

“Lots of things,” she replied breezily, dismissing the insult with a casual wave.

Edward glared at the road ahead, his jaw working as he bit back the string of colorful expletives bubbling in his throat. He didn’t trust himself to speak further, not without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had gotten under his skin.

Which, of course, she had.

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled out of his mouth, adjusting and relaxing his grip on the wheel, trying to ground himself in the monotony of the snail-paced traffic ahead. He was going to get through the day. Seven more hours—seven more hours and he would be free of her until next Wednesday. Four days—four days, and everything would be back to normal.

Normal until the next Wednesday, that was...

What had he done to deserve this? What had he done to have his well-managed, solitary peace disrupted like this? What had he done to deserve this little, bratty twit sitting next to him in the passenger seat? What had he done to have someone so arrogant, so annoyingly confident charged to him? This was his curse—his personal hell, his Sisyphean task, his—

Tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap...tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap...

Edward’s eye twitched, the muscle beneath it spasming in time with the rhythm of the sound. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of his attention. But his periphery betrayed him, catching just enough to confirm what he already suspected.

Those fucking nails.

Romy was on her phone, thumbs flying across the screen with practiced ease, her mint-green acrylics emitting a maddeningly rhythmic symphony of taps against the glass. Edward had thought—hoped—that the car ride would grant him a reprieve from the incessant clacking, tapping, and clicking she did all day. But no. Even here, in the small confines of the vehicle, she had found a way to test his patience.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap...

The rhythm escalated, a relentless barrage that crawled under his skin, settling in his nerves like a splinter he couldn’t reach. He tried to drown it out, focusing on the road, the faint hum of the heater, the dull ache in his jaw, the twitching of his eye, the warmth in his—no, no. No.

T-t-tap.

T-t-taptap.

Tap-t-tap-tap-tap-t-t-t-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-t-t-tap-tap-tap...

...

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-t-t-t-tap-tap-ttttt-tap—

“Are those ridiculous nails really necessary?!” he snapped.

She blinked, then tilted her head slightly, as though genuinely considering the question. Then, as serious as the grave, she quipped, “Oh, they’re absolutely essential.”

“I fail to see the purpose other than to piss me off.”

At that, Romy shifted in her seat, angling herself toward him with deliberate ease. She propped her elbow against the door, resting her cheek on her fist, and paused just long enough to make him even more uncomfortable. He could feel her gaze boring into his profile.

“Then you, Mr. Nashton, have obviously not had a girl run her nails through your hair,” she chided, tone sly, “or your neck, chest... or—well—anywhere really.”

Heat flooded Edward’s face, creeping up his neck like an unstoppable tide. His scowl deepened, his gaze fixed intently on the car ahead. Move. Move. Move. His mind commanded it with such intensity he half-expected the vehicle to vaporize. Anything to escape this conversation.

His thoughts betrayed him, spiraling against his will. The images her words conjured—hands, nails, touches—were too vivid, too sharp in his imagination. Not that he had any real frame of reference, though... No, he hadn’t felt that. Not a girl’s nails, not soft fingers, or kisses, not anything…

And it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. No, it was just... circumstances. Yes, that was it. Circumstances. He’d never had the time. Between school, work, and his ever-expanding projects, his life hadn’t left room for such trivialities. Relationships, intimacy—those things were distractions, irrelevant to his goals. Not that he hadn’t thought about it before. But those thoughts were fleeting, inconsequential. They didn’t matter. They shouldn’t matter.

It felt too warm in the car, the heater suddenly oppressive. That was it. The heater was to blame. But his face burned, and he knew—oh, he knew—she was watching him. 

Finally, he forced out a response, his tone sharper than intended. “That is entirely irrelevant.”

Romy’s chuckle was soft, almost purring, a sound that rippled through Edward and made his grip on the wheel falter for the briefest of moments.

“If you say so, Mr. Nashton,” she replied, and he could hear the grin in her voice, even without looking at her.

The car ahead lurched forward, and Edward seized the opportunity to accelerate, focusing intently on the road. His foot pressed harder on the gas than necessary, the sudden speed a welcome distraction from the unbearable weight of her words.

But then she spoke again.

“So—” she began, and he already heard the mischief in her tone, “is it that you’ve never dated anyone who wore them? Or...?”

His breath caught. A storm brewed in his chest—embarrassment, irritation.

Don’t answer. Just ignore it. It’s a trap.

But the silence was uncomfortable, and he could feel her gaze like a laser, dissecting him, poking at cracks he didn’t even know he had. His jaw clenched, teeth squeaking audibly. The truth sat heavy and bitter in his throat. He’d never dated anyone. Not seriously, not romantically, not in the way she was implying. The few fleeting interactions he’d had were awkward at best, disasters at worst. He’d always been better with knowledge, education, facts, logic, reasoning, puzzles than people.

And this—this conversation—was a prime example of why.

Edward inhaled sharply, his chest tight, and chose the only defense he had left.

“That’s none of your business,” he grumbled.

Romy leaned back slightly, her smirk widening, and he knew he’d just handed her exactly what she wanted—a reaction.

Edward exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp and controlled, an effort to tamp down the simmering irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. He didn’t respond, didn’t dignify her words with an acknowledgment. She was fishing for a reaction, and he refused to bite.

Instead, he locked his gaze on the road ahead, scowling at the snail-paced traffic, trying to will her out of his mind. But it was too late. Her words, her teasing, her relentless prodding had made him acutely aware of something he tried very hard not to think about.

Thirty years old and still a virgin.

How pathetic.

The thought crept in, uninvited and unwelcome, like a spider skittering into the corner of his mind. He tried to squash it, to smack it aside with cold, logical reasoning. It was his choice, after all. It had always been his choice. He’d been too busy, too focused on his work, too... selective. Yes, that was it. Selective. No one had been good enough for him.

But even as he repeated the justification to himself, it felt hollow. Had it truly been his choice? Or had it simply never been an option?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but before he could spiral further, another sound cut through his thoughts.

A shutter click.

Edward flinched. Another click. He spared Romy the briefest of glances, just enough to confirm what he already suspected.

She was taking selfies.

Sitting in his passenger seat, completely at ease, she held up her phone, adjusting the angle as she cycled through expressions: a bright, charming smile; a sultry smolder; a dramatic pout. Each click of the camera was like a needle pricking at his patience, unraveling the fragile thread of control he was clinging to.

Why was she so disruptive?

Click.

“Really?” he muttered, the word escaping before he could stop it.

Click.

She glanced at him, unbothered, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “What?”

He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

Click.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked finally, his tone clipped and weary.

“Stop what?” she replied innocently, though the glint in her eye betrayed her.

“Stop existing,” he snapped.

She laughed softly, the sound light and unbothered, and it grated on him in a way he didn’t fully understand. She took another picture.

“You’re the one who agreed to let me come along. You could have said no.” And another.

“I did tell you no!” Edward growled, his voice a little too loud. His mouth snapped shut. He took a deep breath. “You know, you are intolerable. A gnat. A pest. A menace.”

“Aw.” She gave him a mocking pout. “And here I thought you were starting to like me.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“Then you should try me lying down...”

His mind tripped over itself in a desperate attempt to process her words. He blinked once, twice, his vision tunneling as entirely unbidden images invaded his thoughts. Her lying down. Him beside her. The suggestion was so absurd, so impossible, and yet his brain conjured it with maddening clarity. His scowl deepened as though sheer willpower might banish the thoughts. He focused on the road, willing the asphalt to crack apart and swallow him whole. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He didn’t want to be thinking about this.

Why would she say something like that?

Edward gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white under his gloves, the smooth leather creaking beneath his gloves. His mind screamed at him to shut down the train of thought before it careened into dangerous territory, but it was already too late. The images lingered, vivid and intrusive, like a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong spot—wrong, out of place, but impossible to ignore.

He cleared his throat, the sound harsh and forced. "Do you ever listen to yourself?" he muttered, voice strained. "Or do you just say the first ridiculous thing that comes to mind and hope for chaos?"

Romy spoke in an almost absentminded manner. "A little from column A, a little from column B." Her fingers trail idly over her phone screen. Another click sounded, and Edward's eye twitched.

"Enough with the photos!" he snapped, his voice rising before he could stop himself. "What could you possibly need so many pictures for?"

"For posterity, bruh.” Romy shrugged, tilting her phone to show him the screen, where a string of perfectly angled selfies displayed her smug expression. “Gotta commemorate the first time you let me tag along. It’s a historic day."

"Historic," Edward repeated flatly, his jaw tightening. "If by 'historic,' you mean the first and last time, then yes, absolutely. You have been nothing but a pest."

She chuckled softly, the sound buzzing under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. "You wound me, Mr. Nashton."

"Good," he shot back, his voice sharp. "Maybe you'lllearn to shut that smartass mouth of yours."

Her laugh bubbled up again, lighter this time, almost genuine. "Oh, you love it, and you know it."

Edward didn’t respond. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he focused on the road, the traffic, the cacophony of Gotham’s streets—anything to drown out the chaos sitting in his passenger seat.

But even in silence, Romy was a presence he couldn’t ignore. Her perfume lingered faintly in the air, floral and warm, and every now and then, he caught the faintest sound of her shifting in her seat, her nails tapping against her phone, her amused hums as she scrolled through her gallery or apps.

She was infuriating. Impossible. Distracting in ways he couldn’t fully articulate.

The light ahead turned green, and Edward seized the opportunity to accelerate again, the engine’s low rumble a temporary balm for his fraying nerves. But as the car sped forward, Romy spoke once more, her voice soft but unmistakably playful.

"You know, I think you might eventually like having me around.” 

"I would rather chew glass."

"Now that sounds like a date," she quipped without missing a beat.

Edward groaned audibly, his head thudding back against the headrest for just a moment before he forced himself to refocus. "This is going to be the longest day of my life," he muttered under his breath.

Romy heard him, of course. And when she laughed, soft and wicked, he knew—deep down—she was enjoying every second of his torment.

“You know...” Romy said, her voice dropping, “you’re kind of adorable when you’re this frustrated.”

Adorable.

No one had ever called him that before.

He didn’t want to be called that.

He didn’t want to like being called that.

And yet, there was no denying the fresh, unwelcome wave of heat creeping to the tips of his ears. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, as though it held the answers to his sudden and overwhelming discomfort. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together.

Romy settled back into her seat, entirely too pleased with herself. He didn’t have to look to know she was smiling—that maddening, self-assured smile that made his stomach churn in a way he didn’t understand. The tension in the car was unbearable now, suffocating in its weight.

Edward didn’t know what bothered him more—her audacity, her unwavering confidence, or the way she made him feel so completely out of his depth. Romy was unlike anything he had ever subjected himself to before. Girls like her always pissed him off.

They were the ones who ruled the hallways of his childhood: the cheerleaders, the popular girls, the preps. The ones who didn’t bother hiding their disdain, who sneered at him for daring to exist in the same space—forget even approaching them. They made him feel small, invisible, undeserving of their time and attention.

Yes, that was why he didn’t like Romy. Because she was everything he despised: girly, obnoxious, vain, pretty, styl—

Pretty.

The word dug into him like a splinter under his nail. It wasn’t just that she was pretty—it was the way she knew she was pretty. It was in the effortless way she drew attention without calling for it, the way her every movement seemed calculated for maximum impact.

And it infuriated him.

The sharp, electronic sound of coins falling shattered his thoughts, yanking him back to reality.

Edward’s head jerked slightly, his eyes darting toward her before he could stop himself. Romy giggled softly, tapping quickly on her phone, her expression lit with amusement as she swiped and typed with practiced ease. 

“What now?” he grumbled.

She glanced at him briefly, her smile turning sly as she returned her focus to her phone. “Nothing.”

Edward bit the inside of his cheek, his scowl deepening as his mind raced. What was she doing? Why did she make so much noise? Was she built to piss him off?

Yes, that was it; she was specifically crafted for his torture.

The car fell into relative silence again, but it wasn’t the relief he had hoped for. Instead, the quiet buzzed with unanswered questions and the paroxysmal tapping of her nails and clicking of her selfies.

Edward focused on the road ahead, counting down the seconds until the drive ended.

The Ryker Skyrise jutted into the air like a blade, nestled among the towering spires of Founder’s Island. Its sleek steel and glass façade gleamed in the pale morning light, a monument to wealth and power in a city where both were practically synonymous with corruption.

Founder’s Island was everything Edward despised about Gotham, concentrated into one suffocating district. Unlike the raw chaos of the Narrows or the festering rot of Crime Alley, the filth here wore a suit and tie—criminals all the same. Banks and brokerage firms lined the pristine streets, their marble steps and polished brass fixtures gleaming with an almost obscene clarity. The sidewalks were scrubbed clean, the cracks in the pavement filled with fresh mortar, as though the island could somehow mask the rot lurking just beneath its surface.

It was all an illusion. The buildings might shine, but the people inside were nothing more than predators in expensive wool, preying on Gotham’s already-broken underbelly. Edward’s lip curled as the car inched forward, traffic snarling in its usual morning crawl.

He hated it. He hated all of this.

And worse than the traffic, worse than the oppressive air of Founder’s Island, was Romy.

The ride had been unrelenting. Exhausting.

Edward wouldn’t allow himself to admit it, but she had drained him. Romy, with her prickling yet well-timed chatter, her phone’s incessant notifications, her very presence. She was a little vampire, sucking him dry of his near-limitless resources of energy and patience.

That was impossible.

She was a child.

Not literally, of course. He knew Romy’s age, her background, the purpose of her being here. But in every way that mattered, she was brash and entirely too comfortable dismantling his carefully maintained composure. No wonder she had gone to juvie; even if it had only been for hacking, he had a feeling she would have wound up there one way or another.

He kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, as the car finally reached the entrance to the Ryker Skyrise’s subterranean parking deck. The sleek metal gates slid open, and he descended into the shadows of the underground lot.

The deck was silent save for the sticky sound of tires rolling over smooth concrete. It was cavernous and nearly full of gleaming vehicles that screamed of excess. Edward found a spot near the other GCPD personnel vehicles—a patrol car and a detective’s unmarked one—easing the car to a stop beside them. He cut the engine, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence. It soothed his ears, offering a reprieve from the sound of Romy’s voice, her tapping nails, her phone’s incessant jingles.

Edward exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the wheel as he stared straight ahead. He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see whatever expression she was wearing. He could already feel her gaze, her amusement, her disruption.

“You’re not going to sit there all day, are you?”

Edward didn’t even glance at her. “Stop talking.”

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the car door open and stepped out into the chilled, slightly stale air of the parking deck. He grabbed his bag and closed the door with a little more force than necessary. The sound of his shoes against the smooth concrete echoed faintly, a rhythmic beat that only served to highlight the maddening clack of her heeled boots as she followed. Every step grated on him.

The elevator awaited, its metal doors sliding open with a smooth sequence. Edward let Romy step in first and followed behind, the enclosed space becoming stifling. He could feel her beside him—not touching but impossibly present, her perfume faint but noticeable in the still air. He stared at the control panel as he punched the button for the 49th floor, his fingers pressing harder than necessary.

The elevator hummed to life, climbing rapidly, though not fast enough for his liking.

Romy didn’t speak, and for a blessed moment, he dared to hope the ride might pass without incident. The silence felt precarious, though, like a thread stretched taut, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Edward kept his eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors, watching as they climbed higher and higher.

The elevator dinged as it passed each floor.

Finally, 49.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and Edward gestured for Romy to step out first. She sauntered out, her boots clicking against the polished floor, and Edward followed close behind, eventually passing her. But the two of them didn’t get more than a few steps away from the elevator before he whirled around. His finger held between them, stopping just short of her nose.

Romy blinked before her gaze slowly crossed, centering on his finger. A cheeky smirk grew on her face, spreading like a sunrise as she looked back up at him with a delicate tilt of her head. Edward’s lips pressed into a thin line, his tension faltering for a split second before he doubled down. His voice was low, measured, and brimming with barely contained frustration.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Don’t touch anything. Don’t breathe. You. Don’t. Exist.”

Romy’s lips pinched to one side, and she tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. Slowly, deliberately, she raised two fingers in a mock salute.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Nashton, sir.”

Edward lingered, his finger still in the air to make his point. His gaze bored into hers, trying to intimidate, to assert control, but her smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it widened.

With a sharp huff, he spun on his heel, his coat flaring slightly with the motion as he marched ahead. He didn’t look back, his pace brisk, purposeful, his entire being focused on putting as much space between himself and Romy as possible. She fell into step behind him, her boots clicking merrily against the floor, and Edward’s jaw tightened. This day had already stretched him thin, and it had barely begun.

The sleek, clinical air of  Ryker Skyrise was stifling, the polished marble floors and minimalist decor projecting an aura of wealth and power. At the end of the long corridor sat a desk manned by a meticulously dressed secretary, her ginger hair pinned into a flawless bun, her glasses perched precisely on the bridge of her nose. She glanced up as he approached, her expression professional but faintly wary.

“Edward Nashton, GCPD Cybercrime Division,” Edward announced briskly, gesturing to his laminated badge. It glinted under the cold overhead lighting as he dangled just long enough for her to confirm it.

The secretary studied it briefly before nodding and picking up the phone. “One moment, Mr. Nashton.”

Edward stood stiffly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as a faint hum from the office filled the silence. His eyes darted around the room, cataloging the details with mechanical precision: the polished black marble floors, the modern abstract artwork lining the walls, the sleek tables adorned with spotless vases and plants arranged with mathematical symmetry.

Then his gaze caught on Romy.

She had wandered a few steps to the left, giving him her profile as she gazed out the glass corner over the city below. The skyline stretched beyond her, softened by the remnants of dawn. The bright orange of the early morning had melted into a hazy peach that hung like a veil over the buildings. Against the glass, her figure was outlined sharply, statuesque despite her shorter stature. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back, a posture that suggested ease but carried a deliberate elegance. She tilted her chin up slightly, her gaze narrowing at something on the horizon.

His eyes lingered longer than he intended, drawn to details he hadn’t noticed before. The curve of her jaw caught the soft light, a faint shadow tracing the line of her neck. The sunlight played across her skin, creating subtle highlights that added depth to her features. In this light, she seemed almost otherworldly—sharp edges smoothed by the morning’s luminescence, every detail strikingly clear. There was a glow about her, he noted reluctantly, and he told himself it was just the sun. Of course, it was the sun.

Edward realized he was staring. Before he could force himself to look away, Romy’s eyes flicked to him in a subtle, sideways glance. Her lips twitched, curving into a small, almost knowing smile. The expression was maddeningly effortless, a quiet acknowledgment that she had caught him, yet she said nothing. Instead, she turned her face fully toward him, the soft quirk of her mouth sharpening the tension in his chest.

The light shifted as she moved, catching along the curve of her cheek, the glossy texture of her hair, and Edward felt the heat rush to the tips of his ears. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a knot of irritation. He jerked his gaze away, his focus snapping to the nearby table adorned with flowers, their delicate petals a safe, inanimate alternative to the unsettling presence of her.

Asters. Pale pink camellias.

The burst of purple from the asters was almost too vibrant against the muted tones of the room; their intricate petals fanned out like tiny fireworks frozen in time. The soft pink camellias beside them carried an elegance, their velvety folds unfurling with quiet grace. The combination should have been meaningless… decorative fluff for the sleek, soulless space they inhabited. His jaw tightened, and he dragged his attention away, the flowers offering no solace, only an aggravating sense of mockery.

His posture stiffened as he straightened his shoulders, his body snapping back into its usual rigidity. He pushed the moment aside, burying it under layers of practicality. His mind scrambled for something to ground him, to steady the fraying edges of his focus. The task ahead. The case. The comfort of the structured, logical world of data and analysis waiting just beyond this room.

That was what mattered.

The secretary’s voice broke the silence, pulling him back. She finished her call, hung up, and stood, smoothing down her skirt with practiced precision. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Mr. Carlyle’s office. Your team is already there.”

Edward nodded curtly, his fingers curling slightly around the strap of his bag. Without a glance in Romy’s direction, he stepped forward immediately, falling into step behind the secretary. His focus locked onto the path ahead, his mind circling the problem like a shark scenting blood in the water. He didn’t need distractions.

Not from the flowers. Not from Romy.

The walk was short, the muffled sound of voices growing louder as the three of them approached a set of heavy double doors. The secretary pushed them open, revealing a spacious office dominated by a large, sleek desk and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping view of the city.

Inside, Detective Hall, a port man, and two uniformed officers stood near the desk, their expressions varying shades of boredom. The detective, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a poorly tied tie, looked up as Romy and Edward entered. His gray eyed gaze briefly flicked over Romy before landing on Edward.

“Nashton,” the detective greeted, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. He gestured toward the desk, where a sleek laptop sat closed, flanked by a neat stack of files. “Glad you’re here. We’ve got a situation.”

“I was briefed on the basics.” Edward stepped forward, setting his bag down on the desk. “Embezzlement and fraud allegations. What are we looking at?”

“Vincent Carlyle. CEO of Ryker Capital.” Detective Hall crossed his arms. “There’ve been whispers for months about shady practices—money disappearing, shell accounts, that kind of thing. We finally got enough to move forward. Carlyle’s agreed to cooperate, but he’s adamant that his devices stay on-site.”

Edward’s brow furrowed slightly as he processed this. “Where’s Carlyle?”

“In another room. Didn’t want no funny business.” The detective gestured toward the device. “So, do whatever it is you do. But we’ve got to do this by the book. If we screw this up, the whole case falls apart.”

“What I do is nothing short of amazing.” Edward doesn’t look at the short man as he sits in Carlyle’s plush brown leather riveted chair.

The detective rolled his eyes before shifting them to Romy. “And you are?” 

She opened her mouth.

“A student and no one.” Edward’s tone was clipped as he still focused on the space before him.

The detective raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he nodded toward the laptop. “The device is password-protected. Carlyle claims he’ll provide the password if needed, but I’d prefer if you can get in without him.”

Edward smirked faintly, a flicker of confidence crossing his face. “That won’t be a problem.”

Without waiting for further comment, he opened the laptop with poise much like a surgeon preparing for an operation. He motioned for Romy to follow, his focus already locked onto the task at hand. As he pulled his supplies from his bag—an external hard drive, a set of cables, and a sleek USB forensic toolkit—his movements were quick, deliberate, almost mechanical as he plugged everything in and prepped what he needed, having it all at the ready.

The officers exchanged murmurs near the door, their voices barely audible. The detective stood nearby, arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on Edward’s every move.

The steady clack of the keys filled the room, a rhythmic sound that cut through the oppressive silence. He began the delicate process of creating a forensic image of the laptop’s drive, isolating its data to ensure nothing was altered in the process.

“What are you doing?”

The soft question pulled him momentarily out of his focus, his fingers pausing mid-motion.

He had told Romy not to talk. To not exist.

Still, Edward was not one to pass up an opportunity to demonstrate his genius. He glanced at her briefly, irritation flickering in his expression before his tone softened slightly. “I’m creating a forensic image of the hard drive. Think of it as a snapshot—an exact copy of all the data on this laptop. This way, we preserve the integrity of the original while being able to analyze the contents freely without compromising the evidence.” His gaze shifted back to the screen, his fingers resuming their rapid typing.

“Why—”

“Shut up.” He didn’t look at her, his attention glued to the stream of data unfolding on the screen. 

The room settled back into silence, save for the rhythmic clacking of Edward’s keys and the occasional low beep from the laptop. Edward’s world had narrowed entirely to the task before him, the outside distractions melting into a distant haze as he dove deeper into the labyrinth of data.

“Almost there,” he muttered, the words more habit than communication.

Edward was aware of Romy leaning over his shoulder but didn’t pay attention. No. Not now. On the screen, a progress bar inched forward as the forensic imaging program meticulously copied the contents of the laptop’s hard drive. It was painfully slow, every tick of the bar dragging seconds into what felt like hours. Even Edward was, at times, impatient with the already fast flow of technology—nothing was ever fast enough.

Then, the screen flickered.

“Wait,” Edward said sharply, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. His hands froze mid-motion, his eyes narrowing. And then he saw it—the cursor moved on its own, erratic and deliberate.

“Is that—”

“Remote access,” Edward hissed, cutting her off, his tone laced with low urgency. “Someone’s trying to wipe the drive.”

The calm precision of his movements shattered as his fingers danced over the keyboard. The sharp beeping of an alert pinged, warning of imminent data loss.

“Can you stop it?” Romy asked, her voice tight with concern.

“Stupid question,” he bit, not even glancing at her. His jaw was set, his focus absolute, but the progress bar tracking the remote wipe continued its relentless climb.

Ten percent. Twenty.

His hands blurred over the keys, the machine chirping angrily in response.

Thirty. Forty.

With the external hard drive already connected, its LED light blinked faintly as Edward worked to redirect the data flow. His commands were precise, calculated, but the remote signal fought back with equal intensity.

Fifty percent. Sixty.

“Faster.”.

Seventy.

The lines of code shifted rapidly, Edward’s commands racing to intercept the malicious signal. His face was tight with concentration.

Eighty.

With a final, decisive keystroke, the screen froze. For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still, the tension hanging so heavy it felt like the air itself had thickened.

Then, the progress bar vanished.

Edward exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping just slightly as he leaned back in his chair. The faint whir of the laptop’s fan filled the silence.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The adrenaline still thrummed in the air, but Edward’s calm, measured demeanor had already returned, as if the near-crisis had never happened.

Romy let out a breath, leaning a little closer to his shoulder. “That was close.”

“Too close,” he replied, his tone clipped as he sat forward again, already refocusing. His eyes locked back onto the screen. “But they didn’t get everything. Now let’s see what they were trying so desperately to hide.”

Edward’s hands moved with a steadier rhythm now as he began analyzing the cloned data. The cloned drive opened like a vault, spilling its contents onto the screen—directories, files, metadata, layers of encryption—all waiting to be picked apart. He muttered to himself occasionally, faint snippets of thought escaping as he worked, his concentration absolute. He sifted through hidden files with methodical precision, isolating metadata, piecing together patterns. 

At one point, he paused, his brow furrowing. “Interesting…”

Romy leaned closer. “What is it?”

“A poorly hidden directory,” he replied, his tone almost dismissive as he clicked through a series of files. “Either he thought we were idiots, or he’s trying to waste our time. Look.”

He opened a file filled with mundane-looking spreadsheets, columns of numbers that seemed utterly ordinary at first glance. But with a few keystrokes, Edward overlaid the data, lines of code intersecting and rearranging themselves on the screen. What had looked harmless seconds ago now revealed hidden markers embedded within the spreadsheets.

“These,” Edward explained, pointing to the highlighted markers, “are coded references to offshore accounts. The spreadsheets are a cover—a way to bury the transactions in plain sight.”

“Money laundering,” she murmured.

“Exactly. Sloppy work, really.” Edward smirked faintly, his fingers already back to work, the clack of the keys a steady rhythm undercutting his words. “But effective enough to fool anyone not paying attention.”

“That’s… really cool, Mr. Nashton.”

The compliment caught him off guard. His fingers faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm, but his eyes flicked to her, his expression hovering between skepticism and disbelief. Cool? Of course, it was cool. He knew it was cool. What he couldn’t fathom was what Romy, of all people, could possibly understand about it.

He opened his mouth, a retort already forming on his tongue, sharp and dismissive. But the words stuck in his throat the moment he registered how close she was. She was still leaned over beside him, hands braced lightly against her thighs, her posture casual and unbothered. From this angle, her proximity felt intrusive, overwhelming. Far too close for his liking.

And from this angle, he could see everything.

The soft sweep of makeup, precise and deliberate, catching the light just enough to highlight the healthy flush of her cheeks. Her cheeks were dusted with freckles, giving her an extra youthful appearance. The lavender of her turtleneck framed her face, making her mossy eyes—always easy and observant—seem brighter, deeper. 

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Edward cleared his throat, the sound a little forced, and sat up straighter in his chair. He retreated to his sanctuary: brusque words and deflective logic. “Of course it is. I’m doing it,” he said, his tone sharp and cutting. His fingers resumed their rapid pace over the keyboard, the clacking loud against the quiet hum of the ambiance. “It’s basic pattern recognition,” he continued, his voice clipped. “Anyone with a decent grasp of logic could have figured it out.”

He didn’t dare look at her again, his focus pinned to the screen like his life depended on it. But the heat crawling up the back of his neck told him all he needed to know.

“I definitely wouldn’t have even known where to begin,” Romy admitted, her tone light but tinged with genuine admiration. “You really are brilliant.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean much, because you’re an idiot,” Edward said flatly, his tone clipped and biting. His narrowed gaze locked onto the screen, refusing to drift toward her. “And, of course I’m brilliant. You’ve been told that.”

“Forgive me if I needed to see you walk the talk,” Romy replied smoothly, her grin evident in the teasing lilt of her voice. There was no edge to her words, no malice—just that persistent confidence that grated on him. “But, I understand now… I see you, Mr. Nashton… Good-looking and actually smart—not bad.”

His fingers paused mid-keystroke. Against his better judgment, his gaze shifted to hers again. Her eyes met his, and the faint grin tugging at the corners of her lips only unsettled him further. His mouth opened slightly, the barest movement, as though searching for a retort, but no words came out. Romy cocked a brow, giving him an expectant look.

What did he say to that? Thank you?

The idea alone felt ridiculous, absurd. Thanking her would imply that he appreciated her words—he didn’t. Or at least, he shouldn’t. But the praise…

He shifted in his seat, his hands flexing atop the keyboard. He told himself that her comment was meaningless, empty flattery, designed to distract or unnerve him. And yet… there was something about the way she said it. Casual. Effortless. Honest, even. It scratched an itch inside him. 

Just as he found his words, the sound of the door opening cut through the thought. Their heads snap towards the sound as a tall, young man in a pinstripe suit strode in, his presence sharp and commanding, flanked by a shorter man in a tailored gray suit, his briefcase dangling like a weapon of choice.

“Mr. Nashton, I presume,” the shorter man began, his voice smooth but edged with steel. “I trust you proceeded within the boundaries of the law. My client,” he gestured to the taller man,  “has been cooperative thus far, and I’d hate to see that trust compromised by overreach or… questionable methods.”

“Everything we’ve done is by the book,” Edward replied, his tone sharp but calm. He smirked and resumed his work. “Your client’s cooperation—begrudging though it may be—is noted.”

The taller man’s, Carlyle’s, jaw tightened, impatience flashing across his face. “How much longer is this going to take? I didn’t agree to an expedition.”

Edward paused, his gaze lifting to meet Carlyle’s. His expression was flat, unimpressed. “Mr. Carlyle, it’s a forensic analysis.” He gestured to the screen. “And your laptop? It’s proving quite... enlightening.”

“If you’re so confident in your findings, why not share them with us? We have a right to know what you’re accusing my client of.” The lawyer stepped forward, his hand twitching as if to grab the laptop himself.

Amused, Edward’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he swiftly tilted the laptop away, angling the screen so it was just out of the lawyer’s line of sight. “Chain of custody,” he said coldly, enunciating each word with precision. “If you want to tamper with evidence, feel free. It’ll save us the trouble of proving intent in court.”

“You’ve yet to establish anything substantial.” The lawyer bristled, his composure slipping just slightly. “Any so-called evidence gathered here could be circumstantial, at best.”

“Circumstantial?” Edward gestured toward the device. “These encrypted markers hidden in your client’s spreadsheets link directly to offshore accounts. Shell companies. Consistent patterns of money moving in and out, all flagged under high-risk AML regulations. Circumstantial, maybe, but damning all the same.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Carlyle’s face darkened, his impatience shifting into something closer to anger. “Those are routine transfers—completely legitimate.”

“Routine transfers don’t require this level of obfuscation. Nor do they pass through networks tied to organizations flagged by the International Financial Action Task Force.” Edward raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “But if you insist, I’m sure a forensic accountant will have a field day verifying your claims.”

The suspect stiffened. “You’re making assumptions—dangerous ones.” He set his jaw, nostrils flaring as he stared Edward down. “I have the resources to bury this, you know.” His lawyer shot him an incredulous look, clearly telling his client to shut up.

Edward’s expression hardened, the smirk disappearing. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. “And I have the evidence to make it stick. You can delay this, stall it, drag it through every court in Gotham—but every move you make will only make you look more guilty.” He narrowed his eyes, pinning Carlyle to the spot. “So, by all means, Mr. Carlyle, proceed.”

Carlyle opened his mouth again, frustration evident, but his lawyer cut him off, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Enough.”

The lawyer’s glare shifted to Edward, his jaw tightening. “Do what you have to do.” He straightened his jacket, his posture rigid as he threw a pointed look at Edward, the detective, and then Romy. “We’ll be seeing you in court.”

With that, the lawyer gripped Carlyle’s arm, steering him toward the door. Carlyle hesitated for a moment, his face a mix of indignation and anger, but he followed, the door clicking shut behind them.

The tension lingered in their absence, the room tense with residual hostility.

Detective Hall, who had been standing silently by the desk, shifted and crossed his arms. His gaze moved between Edward and the laptop. “Well, that went about as well as expected,” he said dryly. “What a dumbass. Can’t even keep his mouth shut.”

“They’re like clockwork.” Edward didn’t look up, his fingers moving to save and secure the data he had gathered. “Predictable, dull. Trying to remote into the desktop was their most creative move, and even that failed spectacularly.”

Hall snorted faintly, his gaze still fixed on the laptop screen. “What exactly are we looking at here, Nashton?”

Edward glanced at Hall, his expression neutral, before adjusting his glasses with a precise push up the bridge of his nose. His fingers hovered briefly over the keyboard, then resumed their rapid rhythm. Without looking up, he spoke, his tone measured and deliberate.

“Detective, humor me for a moment. What is something that grows the more you hide it but can collapse in an instant?”

Hall’s brow furrowed, his annoyance evident in the bent lines of his brow. “I don’t have time for this, Nashton.”

“It’s relevant.” Edward allowed himself the faintest smirk, his gaze fixed on the stream of data crawling across the screen. “Trust me.”

The detective groaned, rolling his eyes before looking to the side, very obviously trying to ponder the question. “Aghhh…” He made several unintelligible grumbles as he grasped for the answer. It only made Edward's smirk grow.

What a moron. Couldn't even answer if his life depended on—

“A lie.”

The words, said in a higher pitch than Hall's, stuttered the rhythm of Edward’s typing and his thoughts. His head snapped toward Romy. Her smirk was maddening, a sharp curve of confidence on her lips. She raised her hand in a mockingly cheerful wave, her green eyes glinting with mischief.

“Correct,” Edward hissed, tone terse. “Though I was hoping the good detective might work it out, girl.”

“Seemed obvious.” Romy shrugged, her smirk widening as though she were utterly immune to his irritation. 

He stared at her for a long moment. Edward’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as well, then he turned back to the screen. She had answered correctly. Again. The second time she had done this. It wasn’t just the answer—it was the ease with which she offered it, as though it had taken no effort at all. Worse still, it was that damn smirk. A smirk that said, I’m not impressed by you, Edward Nashton.

The thought coiled in his mind, a small, simmering ember of frustration. He did not tolerate being underestimated—or outshone. She was quick, yes, but her eagerness to outpace him grated on his nerves. Was she trying to impress him? To undermine him? Either possibility was equally infuriating.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the way her quick wit stirred something deeper. Annoyance, yes—but also an unbidden flicker of... respect? No. He crushed the thought as soon as it formed. She was a student, a fledgling who still stumbled through basic coding syntax. Whatever spark she displayed now was meaningless, a fluke. 

“Alright, fine,” Hall interrupted, his groan breaking Edward’s reverie. He gestured impatiently to the laptop. “What’s the point, Nashton? How does that relate to Carlyle?”

Edward’s irritation evaporated, replaced by the sharp edge of satisfaction. His smirk widened as he brought up a series of transactions on the screen, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his glasses.

“Carlyle’s entire operation is built on lies,” Edward began, gesturing to the laptop. “He’s using shell companies—fake businesses that don’t actually provide goods or services—to create a paper trail of invoices and transactions. On the surface, it looks like legitimate income.”

He tapped a key, overlaying a web of connections onto a digital map. Red and green lines crisscrossed the screen, forming a tangled mess of offshore accounts and suspicious transactions.

“But when you dig deeper, you find inconsistencies. Money flows between accounts in different countries, moves through currencies with no clear purpose, and always ends up back in his hedge fund. It’s the textbook definition of layering.”

Hall squinted at the screen, leaning in. “So he’s cycling the money through fake businesses?”

“Exactly,” Edward replied, his voice sharp with satisfaction. “By the time it reappears in his hedge fund, it looks clean—legitimate profits from supposed consulting services or international trade. It’s integration, the final step in laundering. Simple. And completely illegal.”

Romy leaned closer, peering at the screen. “And he kept records of all this?”

“Well, yes, that brings me to the nail in his coffin.” Edward allowed himself a low chuckle, though his eyes remained on the data. “Carlyle made one fatal mistake. He kept detailed logs—encrypted, of course—of every fake invoice, every fabricated transaction. Sloppy for a man who thought himself untouchable.”

“So, this enough to bury him?” Hall asked, his tone grim.

Edward’s fingers clicked over the keyboard, pulling up the final piece of incriminating evidence. “Absolutely suffocate him,” he said, his voice steady, but his smirk faintly triumphant.

“Good.” The detective nodded, stepping back and crossing his arms again. “Compile all of this into a report. Detailed but tight—we’ll need to send this up the chain. This isn’t staying local for long.”

Edward raised an eyebrow, still working. “FBI?”

“Most likely.” Hall nodded. “Something this big? It’s going to get their attention. And when it does, we’d better have every ‘i’ dotted and ‘t’ crossed. I want it by tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll have it by tonight,” Edward bit and closed the laptop with a snap. Then, with efficient movements, he packed up his equipment in the reverse order of when he laid it out, before pulling his bag over his shoulder. Not sparing Romy a glance, he finally spoke to her, his tone brusque but lacking its usual disdain. “Let’s go.”

He strode to the door with purpose, his long steps echoing faintly against the sleek floors. Romy followed without hesitation, her heels clacking in a steady rhythm as she fell into step behind him.

The sound, once a source of irritation—a relentless distraction he couldn’t tune out—now seemed to blend seamlessly with the cadence of the moment. He noticed it but didn’t bristle. There was no tension in his shoulders, no frustrated scowl tugging at his lips. They rested instead in a neutral line, his expression unreadable.

As the two of them moved through the corridor, the world outside the task at hand seemed to fall away. Edward didn’t analyze the change, didn’t question why the sharp, deliberate clicks of her boots no longer grated on his nerves. It was a shift he chose to ignore. Instead, he simply walked, the faint echo of her footsteps trailing him until they both reached the elevator.

“Is this something you do often?”  He could hear the smirk in her voice without turning to look. His hand hovered over the elevator call button for a beat before pressing it.

“Do what?” Edward asked, his bespeckled gaze fixed on the display panel as the numbers above the elevator doors ticked steadily upward, red digits against a black background.

“Oh, nothing… just absolutely dominate people like the daddy you are?”

His shoulders stiffened instantly, the faintest twitch tugging at the corner of his eye. For a moment, the space between them filled with nothing but the low hum of the building and the faint mechanical whir of the elevator ascending.

Edward glanced at his watch—10:01 AM—and back to the car position indicator. The day already felt endless. And now, he had the rest of it to spend in her godforsaken presence. “Please refrain from projecting your disgusting Oedipal complex onto me, you silly little girl.”

Romy tsks. “You see, when you say things like that—‘princess,’ ‘silly little girl’—you’re not helping your case.”

The elevator dinged, the sound sharp and precise. The doors glided open with a faint hiss, and Edward reluctantly gestured for Romy to step in first. “I should leave your ass here to walk back to the precinct,” he muttered.

“You talk about my ass a lot.” She brushed past him with deliberate confidence, chin held high, smugness radiating from the sharpness of her stride. 

Edward’s eyes flicked to her for half a second—longer than he intended—his gaze catching on the sharp turn of her heel and the deliberate clasp of her hands behind her back. There was something in the motion—practiced, poised, irritatingly graceful—that held his attention before he wrenched it away. His neck felt hot, an unwelcome warmth crawling along his skin, seeping into his collar. He pointedly ignored it, stepping into the elevator after Romy, his expression carefully composed into a mask of indifference. 

Without a word, he punched the button for the basement garage.

“Sooo…”

He rolled his eyes and exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. His head tilted slightly, his brows knitting in a way that spoke of his disdain before he even looked at her.

Romy leaned casually, her shoulders against the elevator wall, that easy, half-lidded gaze fixed on him—a look she had mastered, one he found infuriating in its effortlessness.

“...are you this dominant in the bedroom too?”

The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, cutting off the sound of Edward’s sharp inhale.

Later that evening, Edward lit a cigarette, the flick of his lighter sharp and deliberate in the stillness of Gotham’s biting cold. The flame flared briefly, casting a fleeting glow against the shadows, before surrendering to the wind. Smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils, dissipating into the night like his futile attempts to purge her from his mind.

The rhythmic tap of his footsteps against the cracked pavement was a steady counterpoint to the chaotic loop of his thoughts. He pulled his scarf tighter against the unforgiving chill, his strides sharp, purposeful, as though walking faster might leave her behind. 

It didn’t work.

He didn’t like how easily Romy had burrowed under his skin, how her presence lingered like the acrid burn of cigarette smoke in his lungs. She was a nuisance—a fleeting, irrelevant distraction in his otherwise meticulously ordered existence. And yet, her voice, her glances, her noisy nails, even the maddening percussion of her heels clicking against the floor, reverberated in his mind with infuriating clarity.

Her existence in his world was contentious, like a grain of sand caught in the smooth workings of a finely tuned machine. She was disruptive, inappropriate, too bold for her own good—and worst of all, she was competent. Annoyingly so. Just smart enough to demand his begrudging tolerance.

“Quiet, submissive, obedient, my ass…” he muttered, the words spilling out like a curse to the night. His breath fogged in the frigid air, an outward manifestation of the exasperation knotting tighter in his chest.

He shivered again, this time telling himself it was the cold, though he knew better. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, the worn leather biting into his fingers as he pulled it closer. The weight of it pressed into his shoulder—a grounding sensation, a reminder of where his focus should have been. The work. The work was all that mattered. It was the singular thing that gave shape to his otherwise chaotic existence, the only arena where he felt truly in control.

But tonight, there was no peace to be found in that thought, no comfort in the familiar rhythm of his logic. Instead, irritation lingered beneath his skin like a low-grade fever. Not the sharp, crackling irritation born from the incompetence of Gotham’s criminal elite or the blundering idiocy of his colleagues at the precinct. No, this was different—softer, quieter, and infinitely more insidious.

It gnawed at the edges of his mind, this odd, unfamiliar discomfort. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even the sharp sting of humiliation he felt when someone dared to challenge him in his arena. It was something else entirely, a dull, unsettling calm that he couldn’t quite name. Like the strange stillness that follows a storm, when the air is heavy with the smell of rain and the earth feels too quiet.

He hated it. He hated the way it lingered, like settling dust that refused to be brushed away. She was to blame for this—for intruding on his carefully structured reality with her quips, her smirks, her intolerable self-assuredness.

Edward's jaw tightened as he thought of her again, her voice and face echoing in his mind. The ease with which she had answered his riddle, the glint of mischief in her emerald eyes as she waved at him, her smirk daring him to respond. She was a disruption, a wrench thrown into the precise gears of his life. And yet, despite his best efforts, she had lodged herself firmly in his thoughts.

He shook his head, as if the motion could dislodge her from his mind, and quickened his pace. His shoes struck sharply against the pavement, their rhythm purposeful, almost aggressive, as if he could outwalk the unease coiling in his chest. He reminded himself that he was in control. He reminded himself that she was nothing more than a temporary nuisance, an irritant he would endure until her presence in his life—this semester—was over.

Four days. He had four blissful days to himself before he had to deal with her again. Four days of routine, of normalcy, of silence unmarred by her incessant tomfoolery. The thought brought a flicker of relief, but it was short-lived, swallowed quickly by the lingering discomfort she left behind.

This season, this semester, couldn’t end soon enough…

3 months and 15 days

15 weeks and 1 day

105 days

2,520 hours

151,200 minutes

9,072,000 seconds

9,072,900,000 milliseconds

9,072,900,000,000,000 nanoseconds

1.683×1048 Planck seconds

Edward lit a second cigarette before he even realized it.

[suzannealipourian]

Making an Impact: Ways to Volunteer in Your Local Community by Leaders like Suzanne Alipourian-Frascogna

Volunteering is a powerful way to make a difference in your local community. It allows individuals to give back, contribute to causes they care about, and help create a better, more connected society. Whether it’s helping at a local food bank, tutoring children, or participating in environmental initiatives, volunteering offers an opportunity to foster change while positively impacting those around you.

In the United States, volunteering has long been a cornerstone of civic engagement. Communities thrive when their residents work together for common good, and volunteers are essential to driving that change. If you're considering how you can make a meaningful impact, there are numerous ways to get involved in your local community, each suited to different skills, interests, and time commitments.

Volunteering with Local Nonprofits

Local nonprofit organizations are often the heartbeat of communities, providing crucial services to those in need. Volunteering with such organizations can take many forms, from working directly with clients to providing administrative support behind the scenes. Whether it’s helping at a shelter, assisting at food banks, or participating in fundraising efforts, nonprofits offer a variety of ways to engage.

Volunteering enthusiasts such as Suzanne Alipourian-Frascogna emphasize that by volunteering at a nonprofit, you not only contribute to the welfare of your community but also gain insight into its most pressing needs. Many nonprofits rely heavily on volunteers to run their programs, and your time and effort can directly improve the lives of individuals facing hardship. These organizations typically welcome volunteers with a range of skills, meaning that there's likely a role for everyone, regardless of expertise.

Participating in Environmental Conservation Projects

Environmental conservation, as described by leaders including Suzanne Alipourian-Frascogna, is another area where community volunteers play a pivotal role. Whether it's cleaning up local parks, planting trees, or organizing recycling drives, participating in environmental initiatives can lead to significant improvements in your surroundings. Many cities have local organizations that coordinate efforts to protect natural resources, and they are always in need of volunteers.

In addition to helping protect the environment, these volunteer activities foster a sense of community responsibility. Volunteers often collaborate with others who share similar passions for nature and conservation. Whether it's picking up litter or creating green spaces, these projects have long-lasting benefits that can be seen in the beautification of neighborhoods and the preservation of local ecosystems.

Mentoring and Tutoring Youth

One of the most impactful ways to volunteer, as highlighted by volunteering enthusiasts like Suzanne Alipourian-Frascogna, is by mentoring or tutoring children and young adults. Many communities have programs that connect volunteers with students who need extra help in academics or life skills. These programs provide valuable educational support to children who may not have access to additional resources at home.

Mentoring and tutoring help build self-confidence, improve academic performance, and give young individuals the tools they need to succeed. Additionally, these programs allow volunteers to form meaningful relationships with students, providing them with a positive role model and a strong support network. By investing in the future generation, volunteers contribute directly to the long-term growth and success of their communities.

Supporting Local Hospitals and Healthcare Facilities

Volunteering in healthcare settings, such as hospitals, nursing homes, and clinics, offers another way to make a significant impact. Leaders such as Suzanne Alipourian-Frascogna underline that many healthcare facilities rely on volunteers to assist with various tasks, including patient support, administrative duties, and even providing companionship to those who are lonely or in need of emotional care.

In addition to the direct benefit to patients, healthcare volunteering can be a rewarding experience for volunteers themselves. The emotional fulfillment derived from helping individuals during challenging times cannot be overstated. Volunteers who work in these settings often form strong bonds with patients and healthcare providers, and their contributions can help improve the overall quality of care that individuals receive.

Engaging in Civic Activities and Local Government Initiatives

Volunteering for civic engagement initiatives is another powerful way to contribute to your community. Activities might include organizing local events, assisting with voter registration, or supporting community outreach programs. Many local governments and civic organizations rely on volunteers to engage with residents and ensure that public services reach all members of the community.

Volunteering enthusiasts including Suzanne Alipourian-Frascogna emphasize that by volunteering in civic activities, individuals help create more informed, connected, and active communities. Such efforts not only strengthen the local political landscape but also ensure that everyone’s voice is heard. Volunteers can be instrumental in fostering a more inclusive society by promoting civic participation and assisting with initiatives that aim to improve the quality of life for all community members.

Volunteering for Social Justice and Advocacy

For those passionate about social justice and equality, volunteering with advocacy organizations can be an empowering way to create change. These groups often work to support marginalized populations, fight for policy changes, and raise awareness on key social issues. Volunteers can assist in organizing protests, writing advocacy letters, or supporting campaigns that promote civil rights and fairness.

By working with these organizations, volunteers contribute to the larger movements that strive to eliminate injustice and inequality. These efforts not only help those directly affected by discrimination but also promote broader societal change. Volunteering for social justice provides an opportunity to actively participate in the fight for a more just world, making it an essential part of community service.

Volunteering for your local community offers numerous benefits—not just for the people you help, but for your own personal growth as well. Whether you contribute to nonprofit organizations, participate in environmental initiatives, mentor youth, or get involved in civic and advocacy work, your time and effort can make a lasting impact. By volunteering, you contribute to a stronger, more connected community, where individuals work together to improve their shared environment and well-being. Engaging in these activities provides fulfillment and promotes a culture of generosity and compassion, helping build a better world for all.