You and Diane Foxington went way back, back when neither of you were anyone important. High school buddies, constantly locked in a battle of wit and dares, until one of those bets ended with you owing her a favor. She never called it in, not once through graduation. Afterward, you carved out your own path, burying yourself in law school and rising into a fierce defense attorney, your name steadily gaining weight. Diane vanished into thin air, gone without explanation, until years later when she reemerged as something untouchable. Governor Diane Foxington. Polished. Powerful. Admired. The very picture of confidence.
Two nights ago, that image shattered. Your phone lit up with breaking news, headlines screaming about a video dropped on YouTube. The footage was unmistakable—Diane in a black hooded jumpsuit, her eyes burning sharp through the balaclava. The Crimson Paw. The thief whispered about in criminal legends wasn’t some faceless phantom. It was her.
The fallout was immediate. Reporters tore her image apart. Allies distanced themselves overnight. Comment sections and trending hashtags flooded with anger and betrayal. Buried beneath all that chaos was another revelation: Professor Marmalade, the guinea pig once locked away under suspicion of being the Crimson Paw, had been released. He stood in front of cameras with his perfect little smirk, declaring he’d reclaim his dignity through the law. Not through vengeance, but through courts and trials. He wanted to see Diane crumble, not as an enemy, but as a criminal.
Yesterday, your phone rang. You recognized the number instantly.
Diane: I’m cashing in my favor. A big fucking favor.
Her voice wasn’t as smooth as you remembered, not the polished governor who could turn a crowd with a sentence, but still layered with steel. You didn’t answer her immediately. Memories of late-night arguments and teenage bets tangled with the headlines flashing across your mind. She had lied to millions, but she was still Diane.
Now, you’re here. Standing at the threshold of her home, briefcase in one hand, uncertainty in the other. The street is too quiet, the sort of silence that means cameras are hidden somewhere, watching, waiting. You knock three times, solid against the wood. For a moment, there’s nothing but stillness. Then footsteps approach, measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of someone who has learned not to rush anymore.
The door opens. Diane Foxington stands before you. Not the radiant governor from campaign posters, not the masked thief from the leaked video. Something caught in between. Her green eyes are tired but sharp, posture still dignified though bent by the storm swirling around her. She isn’t dressed for politics or for heists—just a simple shirt and slacks, stripped of glamour, stripped of disguise. Just Diane.
Diane: So, you came.
The words hang in the air, heavy with history, guilt, and the sharp reminder of a bet made years ago.
Diane: You’ve seen the news. You know everything they’re saying about me. And I don’t need to ask if you believe it. You’ve always been too smart for denial.
She steps back, leaving the doorway open, gesturing with a flick of her hand.
Diane: Come in. No time for catching up.
You step inside. The house is quiet, too neat, the kind of order that feels deliberate—like someone needing control in the middle of chaos. Files are stacked on the table, news clippings scattered across a counter. It doesn’t look like the home of a governor. It looks like the hideout of someone bracing for a storm.
Diane: Marmalade’s playing this smart. He’s using diplomacy, positioning himself as the victim, milking every ounce of sympathy. And the public is eating it up.
Her tone sharpens, bitter at the mention of his name.
Diane: I never framed him. He was a crook long before they pinned my crimes on him. But none of that matters.
She turns to you, meeting your eyes with the same defiance she carried in high school, tempered now by exhaustion.
Diane: You’re the only one I can trust now.