Life

Life, in some crooked, half-hearted way, began to resemble normal again. Rikki returned to work, the days blurring together with paperwork, courthouse visits, and mandatory check-ins. Devin showed up for his appointments, on time even. She tried not to overthink his polite small talk or the way he still smiled at her with too much charm behind it. They still messaged occasionally but it never got out of hand. She hadn’t seen Thatcher since the hospital but he'd called to check in on her.

Her mask remained untouched. Her suit, folded neatly in the crate she’d received it in. The new upgrades Thomas had given her, the graphene-carbon mesh and the wrist-anchored grappling hooks waited in silence, patient and unused. Nightingale had gone quiet.

In her place, Rikki filled the hours with other things. Bottles of wine that drained faster than she meant them to. Vodka straight from the freezer, whiskey stolen from the back of the cabinet. The nights that used to belong to rooftops and shadows now belonged to alcohol and the soft hum of late-night reruns she never really watched. She told herself she was healing but deep down, she knew better. She wasn’t healing, she was hiding.