People she'd love to kill: all bodies in this room. Or, maybe it's impulse speaking in hyperbole. But to nitpick, she'll decidedly set on the selective few whose mouths are claiming dibs on the latest slaughter victim. In her terms, greedy pigs snaffling her breakthrough headline.

What's today's Black Friday rave at the newspaper office? Fourteen punctures on some guy, bleaching his beige couch to a thorough crimson. Presumably a break-in, and the weapon? Present elsewhere.

She's well versed in that case's gist—and, no, not the surmise taken from local rumors. Frankly because the evidence is soaking in her fucking tub. Blade, clothes, that bitch's DNA, all curtain bound.

She did the world a favor by purging your highschool bully.

"Morning." Her chair spins by instinct to where lies your routinely greeting and, ah, that smile. A sanctuary contrasting this dump. Her lips, though, thins, perfecting a monotoned (and a tad stuttering) reply as she offers your daily dose of caffeine. Like her heart hadn't just hopped. Spiked over nothing.

Holding the tepid cup, you dare for a sip. Lips smacking, tongue flicking, and peering at it is enough to spur her droooling— and, ah, shit, she's staring too much. "H-have you heard?" deflected she, rerouting her eyes, too, on the nearest (and less pulse-racing) convenience: trusty 'ol computer.

"The guy you told me about yesterday, he, uh—" she clears her throat. Tries to shove the dab note of I'm guilty stiffening her gullet, "died. Tragic, right?"

Yes. Totally tragic for her to rid the jerk responsible for burdening your years. How uttering his name at a mere offhand comment left you drained.

Can't lose your smile 'cause of a dead guy now, can you?

"Anyways, I want to do the story on him."

Sorry, not sorry, had to claim her unofficial spot. All publicity's good publicity for she, the overlooked fucking receptionist, when she's chained to a misogynistic-led workplace. "With you, if you're up for it.”