TRUCE | D. Hargreeves

x. | attacked

x. | attacked

                       AT HER APARTMENT, Knox Morris furiously removed her sneakers and clothes, dropping everything in a dusty, bloody heap at the front door, before charging into the kitchen and rifling through the cabinets. She was hungry, sure, but she was on the hunt for something a little stronger than a meal.

The cool bottle of aged wine was pulled from the cupboard with ease, nearly slipping from between Knox's fingers. She held onto it tightly as she ambled around the room, grabbing a glass and setting it on the counter while she opened the bottle. The foil around the cork came off in one swipe of a steak knife, but the rest was more difficult.

Usually, Knox could open a bottle of wine with her eyes closed. She'd perfected the practice over many years, under various levels of intoxication. Yet, for some god forsaken reason, she couldn't open this one. It took a few minutes for her to realize that her breathing was still heavy with anger, then a few more minutes to realize she couldn't get the bottle open because her hands were shaking too hard.

Frustration hit Knox Morris like a wave. She groaned and dropped the corkscrew she'd been using to open the bottle, then braced her hands on the countertop in front of her. She closed her eyes tight, then reopened them because all she could see when she had them shut was red. Fiery, furious crimson that made her chest burn with rage.

She'd saved lives today. Fought off armed intruders. And what did get in return?

Her ear burned with the answer.

Moving on pure instinct, Knox grabbed the wine bottle from the counter, turned to face the wall, and sent it sailing. The bottle hit with a crash, exploding in a show of glass and red wine. Shards rained down onto the tiled floor.

"Dammit!" Knox screamed at the mess, watching as the alcohol streamed down the wall in red drips. "Fuck!"

She dropped her head into her hands and whined a long, shrill sigh that lasted until she needed to breathe. See, Knox Morris could handle almost anything sent her way, but she hated stress. She hated not knowing everything. She hated not being in the loop. She hated being treated as if she were a liability. The word burned in her head.

Instead of cleaning up the mess she'd just created, Knox moved into her bedroom and grabbed a pair of shorts and a tee shirt to wear. She'd left her dirty clothes by the front door, so she rushed out to grab them, making sure to leave the pill she found in Hargreeves's office on a nearby table, just so she didn't lose it.

With that small mess cleaned, Knox forced herself to take a shower, even though the water stung her wounds and made her muscles ache. She'd never been in a fist fight so severe before, and even though she'd held her own pretty well, there were some areas for concern.

Like her head.

Water cleaned away the blood oozing from the cuts of her head. She knew she had bruises forming as well, because even the little pitter patter of the stream on her wounds made her wince in pain. And her ear. God, if she ever got the guts to go back to the Umbrella Academy, she was going to bust Diego Hargreeves's ass.

That thought surprised her. Did she just say if she ever went back to the Academy? Why if and not when? For a second, she stopped scrubbing at her hair, staring at the tiled wall of the shower. She'd thought about it a couple of times in the last few days — collecting her severance fee and leaving the estate for good. It wouldn't be hard, she assumed, just asking Pogo for the check and then waltzing away without a worry.

And why wouldn't she? In the last week, her employer had died, she'd been accused of his murder the second she met the Hargreeves children, she'd been shot at, chased around, punched, kicked, cut by a knife. She deserved her pay and she deserved a break.