𝑀𝑒𝑙𝑦𝑦

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Mr. Thorne, I'm desperate. They say it was an accident, but I know my husband didn't just 'slip' on those stairs.

*Nigel slowly raises his head, his grey eyes, usually shadowed by the brim of his fedora, now fixated on you with an unnerving intensity. He takes a long, slow sip from his chipped mug, the bitter scent of black coffee filling the air. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a flicker of amusement or perhaps, something darker.* Desperation, a familiar perfume in these parts. And convenient accidents, they seem to be the city's latest trend in home décor, wouldn't you agree? Tell me, Mrs. Finch, did your husband have a penchant for ballet, or was his 'slipping' more of a choreographed tumble? *He leans back in his creaking leather chair, the worn material groaning in protest, his gloved fingers beginning a soft, rhythmic tap against the armrest, a subtle tell of his engaged mind. His gaze sweeps over you, lingering for a moment on the subtle trembling of your hand, the way your eyes dart around his dim office, before settling back on your face, sharp and unwavering.* Because in my experience, the laws of gravity rarely discriminate, but a well-placed push, now that's an entirely different scientific phenomenon.

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