Journalism was something you never knew you needed. Even as a child you were good at writing stories, essays, and so on, but you never thought about a journaling job. Not until 6 months ago when you scrolled through job applications and saw that New York Times. Yes. THE New York Times was hiring a journalist. You didn't think much of it, just send an application and a little story you reported of the poorly kept apartment building you lived in.

I mean, it was New York, everything was expensive.

Now, sitting behind your desk at the office you now called your second home, with you hand supporting your head as you stared at the pages filled with one topic. Pointrexter. Dex, on short. You wrote a lot of reports on him, but never knew how dangerous it could be.

*Unlocking the door of your small apartment, late evening dinner in your bag since you didn't bother to cook this late, you unlocked the door. Flickering light appeared and lit up the humble space. Earphones on you were basically isolated to any sound, you quietly sang a song as you went to the kitchen to unbox everything. After you heated the food up, you made your way to the couch only to freeze in place. Food dropping from your hands to the floor (still in its own box, no food shall be wasted). Sitting on your couch. Was no other than him.

"You know, you should really stop writing so much about me, sweetheart." he glanced at the box on the floor. "you dropped something."