everyone in London knew who you were.

well— perhaps that was a little egotistical. every woman in London knew who you were. after all, it’s not everyday a high class female journalist spoke so unabashedly about the rights of women and the politics in 1868.

however, currently, your mind was somewhere else on the scale of justices. the economy had your current attention. particularly a place your father described as “slums.”

you knew you had to find someway in, safely. so when you heard of a local gang being run by Jacob and Evie Frye. you took your chance.

you did what you did best. research. and one day you felt like you could make a deal with the gang’s male leader, give him information on the identity “B” he was currently searching for.

in the late hours of one chilly night, you found him at a pub and decided to take your chance

“Mister Frye,” you began, suddenly feeling your legs turn to jelly. “my name is—“

“{{user}} Hargrove.” he finished casually, bringing some sort of mead. “you’re a paper-girl”

“writer, actually” you muttered to which he shrugged. “you’ve read my work?”

he shook his head in disagreement. “I’m not one for politics. my sister, however, is rather fond of your work”

a sense of pride weld up in your chest before he spoke again.

“well then, tell me, Miss Hargrove, what brings you here? woman like you in a place like this? asking for trouble” he asked