ONE

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ROCHELLE

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ROCHELLE

I sigh to myself as I kick my legs up onto the large, sleek mahogany desk, crossing my leather-clad legs at the ankles. Leaning back into the chair, I leisurely flick open one of the manila-coloured files I found on the desk, not surprised to find that the contents of it is relatively dull. A yawn of pure boredom falls from my lips as I carelessly toss the folder back onto the stack, sliding my flick knife out from my sleeve and deciding to play with that instead. I find myself amused as I watch the blade repeatedly pop up from the handle before disappearing again with the press of a button. God, I love knives.

The sound of the front door unlocking and opening from further down the hall snaps me back to attention, causing me to sit up a little straighter. My ears strain as I listen to their every movement: keys jingling, boots tapping against the hardwood floor, the humming of a vaguely familiar tune. By the sound of his footsteps, he's clearly moving at a leisurely place, which rather annoys me. It's not like I have all the time in the world here.

I begin to tap my nails against the wood in time with the footsteps that are gradually making their way closer, their volume increasing every second. The sound of my hard nail against the desk practically echoes through the silent, empty room, similar to that of the boots I hear slapping against the wood floors, the footsteps following the same path as I did to reach the office on the ground floor of the house.

I snap the flick knife shut again and slide it back up my sleeve at the same time that he finally appears in the doorway, just able to make out his dark shadow in the dim light. A terrified gasp gets caught up in his throat, his body jerking back and almost falling over in shock at the peculiar sight of a stranger perched so comfortably in his home.

"Finally, I was starting to think you'd never come home," I say with a sigh, shaking my head to myself in disbelief. "You know it's very rude to keep a lady waiting."

He doesn't reply for a while, clearly too shocked to even string a sentence together. I sense his widened gaze rake down the expanse of my body, from my head all the way down to my feet which are still propped up onto his desk. It's at this point that I realise you probably shouldn't put your feet up on classic cuban mahogany, especially not in heeled leather boots. Oh well, too late now.

"W-who are you?" he asks shakily, finally having the balls to actually speak to me. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

I let out a groan, grabbing another file and lazily flicking through it. "Ugh, it's so cliche. Always the same questions. 'Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?" I mock in an accent a few octaves higher than my actual voice, loudly flicking over another page. "Humans are so goddamn repetitive."

I finally swing my legs off the desk and pull myself up onto my feet. My eyes flicker up to meet his for the first time, my gaze scanning over his face that I've only seen in a photograph before now. Brown eyes, dark hair with hints of grey from age, freshly shaven stubble littered across his jawline that has become softer throughout the years.

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