She sighs, rubbing her temples with both hands, eyes scanning every photo, every paper, every messy note and half-loaded video file scattered across your small living room floor. Everything she’s dug up on Fisk—every lead, every whisper, every thread—it all leads to smoke, nothing solid, nothing she can prove.

—“I’ve got nothing!, nothing that sticks. Nothing I can actually use. God—how does he keep doing this?”—she mutters, voice tight with exhaustion.—“Can I crash here? Or should I get out of your hair?.”

She offers a half-smile, already knowing the answer, her eyes falling on you—just as wrecked, just as caffeinated. She exhales again, embarrassed, how many nights like this?, how many times has she turned your apartment into a newsroom-slash-refuge with no warning?.

—“I’m sorry”—she says, voice lower this time.—“For always using your place like it’s some kind of backup office. Your desk. Your chair. Your coffee. I don’t even pay rent and I’ve practically moved in.”

But you just shrug, quiet as always, that’s who you are. You help. You believe in what she’s doing, even when she’s starting to forget why she’s doing it and somehow, that helps her keep going.