WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 6 | THE WINDOWS

If you haven't noticed, this story has been marked as Mature. This is due to the descriptions of violence that will be included in this story. Any serious/vivid imagery will be given the proper trigger warner. Please do not read if you feel uncomfortable.

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[WILLIAM]

⑅

THE REASONABLE CHOICE WOULD BE TO KICK THE DOOR DOWN.

Her little stunt put me in a position of severe alarm, and all I can think about is killing her myself. She's incompetent and stubborn. Just thinking about her smug face on the other end of the door makes it oh, so, much worse.

I can't wrap my head around it. Women get easily attached—at least in my experience, when I can't get them out the door after a meaningless one-night-stand—and yet she's the complete opposite. She refuses to have anything to do with me. I'm here to make sure she doesn't die, and yet she continues to go about her silly, little, life without an actual concern in that brain of hers.

But I can't kick the door down. Not without a reason. I'm the 'chauffeur' (which was a horrible lie, by the way, considering we walked here) and if I blasted into the apartment while she was in no serious danger, I'd look insane. I'm supposed to go undetected, not be the center of attention.

"Bloody pain in the head," I hissed under my breath, stalking away from the doorway.

I wasn't going to let her stubborn ignorance get in the way of my job, however. No matter how little I genuinely cared for her well-being. I only wanted to save my reputation from the shambles I previously left it in. Scanning the penthouse lobby, I searched for anything useful.

It was a small, hexagonal room, with the elevator on the opposing side of the apartment door. By the back wall was a small couch, and in front of that was a glass coffee table. It was hard to miss the ugly, creme, floral wallpaper plastered around me.

My attention was quickly drawn towards the window, where I could see a brilliant view of the Paris skyline. Unfortunately, I couldn't see into the apartment. My sight on Lovey was completely eradicated.

On second thought, maybe I should break the door down.

Slipping my fingers into the back pocket of my trousers, I pulled out a small trinket gifted to me from my employers. Every assassin took a course on how to get through a door: knocking it down, swinging it open while intruders were inside, using the door as a weapon, or in my case, picking the lock. It was a useful trick in most cases.

Kneeling down in front of the large, white door, I leveled my eyes through the indent in the handle. This shouldn't take too much time—Mori Fauna-Blanc owned a cylinder lock, the easiest kind to pick. All I had to do was place the pin through the hole, apply pressure, and twist it like a normal key would. Easy.

Or perhaps I spoke too soon.

While my attention was focused on the handle in front of me, I heard the sound of the elevator grinding to a stop from behind me. A soft ding! rang out into the air. My body tensed up as I heard the metal doors slide open, creaking against the walls, as someone stepped into the penthouse lobby.

Foam Crepe shoe soles. Weighty on step. Most likely a man.

I narrowed my eyes, coming to a still as thoughts raced through my brain. Mori Fauna-Blanc was approaching their 30s, and had no record of a spouse or partner. Entertaining a man was highly unlikely for them. If the figure behind me was here on business terms, that would be unlikely as well—it's not appropriate to talk 'business' at someone's house. Family is irrelevant; Mori's relations are back in Kensington.