𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄. She tapped its murky surface to break the thickening skin, the frigid brown drink dripping from her finger, the ripples spreading toward the rim in ever larger circles, the steam that had risen when she had set it down long gone.

Having woken up late, Mercy was in no hurry to think about the events of last night, content to simply sit there with her hands clasped around her drink, contemplating the day's schedule—of course, she knew what she had to do, but it was nice to let her mind wander to the possibilities, as if she were any other person with a regular brother, one who didn't break and enter to steal items belonging to one of the wealthiest men in the world.

She debated picking her phone up, simply scrolling through anything to put off the moment when she would have to think about what to do, but the thought of knowing she would have to call Daniel was almost nauseating—not to mention she wasn't even sure if she had his cell phone number anymore, considering there were multiple occasions in which she seriously debating deleting, yet, in the end, sighing and deciding against it should she ever need it some day.

She didn't want to need it, of course, but her brother was unpredictable, and it was better to safe than sorry, no matter how angry or hurt she felt.

Despite the conflict, she knew she didn't want to stay alone in her apartment all day, especially when the pit in her stomach only grew with every passing second, the wall clock ticking the timer of a bomb, each dragging her forward while mocking her with her inability to reverse or stop it; she could no more avoid it than the beating of her own heart.

With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself off the couch, making her way to the kitchen with her—now cold—mug of coffee in hand, dumping the beverage down the sink and placing it off to the side as a mental note to wash the dishes later on, stretching and groaning as she realized what she had to do.

Seeing as she wasn't going to work, she opted for something a little less formal, scrutinizing her reflection in the full length mirror with a scrunched nose, puffing out her cheeks as she tugged off outfit after outfit before finally settling on one of her favorites, happily gasping quietly when she noticed the look would appear complete if she went without the jacket and rumpled up her shirt.

It was as if she were in her twenties again, picking out clothing at the mall with her best friend, both laughing as they tried on ridiculous and professional outfits alike, marvelling at how commanding they looked in the latter.

Shaking her head and wringing her hands, she walked to the bathroom, spending a few moments—although it easily could have been longer, seeing as she wasn't wearing her watch yet and she had left her phone in the living room—staring at herself in the mirror, taking in her worn out expression and wrinkled pajamas, resisting the urge to frown at her appearance so as not to further develop wrinkles.

She wouldn't be looking her best, but it would have to do.

Finishing up in the bathroom, it was back to her clothes. Clothing was something she had come to appreciate over the years, especially when she learned early on that it was scientifically proven to effect mood and boost confidence, and, seeing as how she regularly needed all the empowerment she could get, dressing well and utilizing her style became a mechanism for her to tackle whatever or whomever stood in her way to the top.

Stepping back in front of the full length mirror, Mercy admired her lightly tucked button up, placing the blazer back on the hanger after finally deciding to go without it, running a hand through her hair as she thought about what to do with it.

Seeing as her curls were re-emerging from yesterday's perfectly straightened strands, she opted to put in more product and let it dry naturally, stepping into her closet to decide what shoes would go with her look; she didn't feel high heels were suitable for who she was visiting, despite them being broken in enough to be comfortable, so she just sighed as she chose a pair of booties gifted to her quite a while back, smiling as she carried them to place near the front door.

Her makeup was something she extensively experimented with while still in school, not ashamed of admitting she liked exploring with whatever look she happened to exude. It took quite a bit of trial and error, with her asking several roommates and girl friends throughout the years for advice rather than relying on YouTube videos, but she eventually found what she liked, and she couldn't have been happier.

In that department, at least.

She debated taking a full purse with her, one that could be tucked under her arm wherever she went, but she liked the idea of having her hands free, so she simply gathered her necessary items and began placing them in the pantsuit's pockets, only taking the essentials so as not to bulge the the fabric too much. Women's pockets were hard to come to begin with, what with far too many being fake simply for the sake of style, so she began shopping exclusively with the matter in mind, the result being all her pantsuits having fully functional pockets.

Mercy's attention turned to her phone after hearing it buzz, grabbing it hurriedly to only sigh in disappointment upon finding out it was only a work email—of course, it was important and most likely required her immediate attention, but it was the weekend and she was getting ready to visit someone she hadn't seen in years; her stomach was churning at the prospect of her visit as well as yesterday's conversation, so she was not at all in the mood to deal with anyone at work.

Not that she didn't like those that she worked with. She had gone to great lengths to hire her employees, because she was meticulous with who she worked with; if she wanted to be successful, she needed those around her to strive for the same thing.

She came across David's name in her phone after all, her hand steady as she pressed his number and raised the phone to her ear, waiting for her brother to pick up, resisting the urge to throw her phone across the room so as not to hear the irritating dial tone. When the call finally went to voice mail—she wasn't surprised, but that didn't mean she was happy either—she scoffed and placed it on the bench next to her, rolling her eyes.

"He better not be ignoring me," Mercy grumbled to herself as she put on her boots, because it seemed the older man was as infuriating as she remembered him to be.

Pushing herself off the bench, she grabbed her phone and left her apartment, making a mental note to invite Thomas over for tea sometime as she locked the door, stepping out into the hallway. Fortunately, it was carpeted, as too many people complained about the constant sound of shoes clicking on the hard floor, the sound echoing if not for the walls' close proximity.

She made her way through the building to the lobby, passing by a family of small children behaving remarkably well for their age and a suited man with a slick goatee who nodded at her as she passed by, nodding back before pushing open the building's doors and making her way out onto the street.

It had taken quite a bit of practice, but it was thanks to Thomas that she was able to hail taxis, the bearded man laughing at her offhandedly commenting her surprise, seeing as how he biked everywhere and didn't seem like the type to aggressively yell for a ride in public, merely crediting his girlfriend for teaching him how to do so when the situation called for it.

Sliding into the backseat, she recited the address, watching him plug it into his GPS, grateful for the music he had on because it meant she wouldn't have to make small talk with a complete stranger. Of course, her work meant she had to be comfortable with it when the situation arose, but that didn't mean she actively did so on a daily basis, content to simply sit quietly in the backseat and stare out the window.

It was a while before they arrived at her destination—this was partly why she hardly visited—but the ride was peaceful, neither speaking unless absolutely necessary, the cab driver slowing down in front of a large nice looking house near the outskirts of the city, Mercy handing him the money she owed before climbing out.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a polite smile before turning on her heel and walking away, taking notice of the man's call to take care of herself—a nice gesture that brought a genuine smile to her face.

That left her on the front step of a home belonging to someone she hadn't talked to in years—this was beginning to become a pattern, it seemed—and she was seriously considering turning around before she heard yelling within the house, impulsively knocking loudly until she couldn't resist any longer, testing the doorknob, finding it unlocked.

"She's become lax with her security," Mercy mumbled to herself, taking a deep breath before stepping inside the house, taking in the new changes since her last visit.

The walls held numerous photographs of two children, the floor an old-fashioned parquet with a blend of deep homely browns, the banister finishing with the twirl of a branch, tamed by an artist's hand; yet, not only was the house quiet enough to hear the ticking of a clock in the next room, the argumentative occupants from a few moments before were nowhere to be seen.

"You're trespassing," a voice said, with a smug tone only those with privileged authority could exert.

Mercy whirled around, glad she had opted out of wearing high heels because she surely would have tripped turning around to see whomever was behind her. Of course, it wasn't her house and she really had no reason to be so startled, but common sense had no leverage over irrational fear.

A man in a red suit and black bowtie stood behind her with an eyebrow raised, a wine glass loosely dangling from his hand, black glasses perched on his nose and what she could only describe as an egotistical knowing expression on his face. This wasn't at all what she was expecting, but nothing she couldn't work with; she didn't get to where she was by letting a man stop her, let alone a man who chewed gum obnoxiously and nasally declared the obvious.

"The door was unlocked," she pointed out, jerking her head towards the front of the house, "Who were you yelling at?"

"No one," he replied smoothly, giving her an innocent smile before draining his glass, placing it on the nearest flat surface. Oddly enough, he didn't appear too invested in questioning why a stranger was standing in the house—at least, Mercy assumed he was an acquaintance or coworker, seeing as how who she was visiting didn't seem to be interested in men, she would have to bring it up when they finally spoke.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she merely asked, "Where's Talia?" because the last thing she felt like doing was play games, too tired to even vocalize her concerns about what a man was doing in her friend's house, tamping down her guilt by reassuring herself she would call the police if necessary; she knew how to handle herself, and it certainly wouldn't have been the first time, nor the last.

Talia Holmes had drifted into Mercy's radar several times since they'd met at a gallery fundraiser several years ago, Mercy having no idea the criminal proceedings lying underneath the event she helped put together, forming an unexpected friendship with the woman when it mysteriously came to her attention. Despite her keeping exactly what she did under wraps, Mercy never found reason to doubt her, especially when she found out how many people she was helping when her work went through.

They both stared at each other, unblinking, until the man finally smiled again, raising a finger and shaking it at her, her body stiffing involuntarily as she resisted the urge to smack it away. Smacking his lips, he jerked his head over to the couch, indicating that she should follow him, but she stayed where she was, unsure of what the situation was and whether or not she needed to run out the door.

"You don't need to be so tense," the man called, making himself comfortable on an armchair in the living room, "Has Talia never mentioned me? I'm hurt, I have got to have a talk with that woman when she comes back, I thought we were friends."

Still firmly rooted to where she was standing, Mercy allowed her eyes to wander more freely around the house, her gaze falling on a small rectangular picture frame of a dark-haired woman and a man with glasses smiling at the camera, joined by several other people she didn't know. Furrowing her brow, she began to inspect the frames on the shelf above the television, stunned to see them contain another photo containing the man behind her.

While she was hugely relieved her friend didn't just have a man lounging around in her house, Mercy couldn't help but feel a small pang, hurt that Talia wouldn't have mentioned the people she worked with, especially since some of them were close enough to the degree that they were able to loiter in her house without her presence; of course, her friend was also an independent woman and was fully in her own right to do as she wished, not mention she hadn't spoken to her in years, yet she still felt her stomach drop all the same.

"I'm looking for Talia," she stated, finally making her way over to the couch, easing herself onto it, jarred by the lack of bounce the furniture gave, seeing as her own couch was fairly old—yet nevertheless fully functional—and still gave a boisterous bounce that never failed to bring a small smile to her face whenever she flopped on it.

The man snorted. "Yeah, I could tell. So, obviously, she's not here right now, but I can take a message, so what do you want?"

"Why are you here?" Mercy asked, tilting her head to the side, taking in the young man with his impressively chiseled jawline and apathetic behavior, wondering how Talia could have possibly become close with such a person.

"I could ask the same of you," he countered, a smile beginning to play on his lips, and while Mercy wanted nothing more than to demand where the woman was, she was fully determined to understand the situation—and if she was being honest, she was genuinely curious, so she kept her mouth shut and her thoughts silenced. 

The man gasped dramatically, shaking his head as if just remembering something, sticking out his hand. "Ah, where are my manners? I'm Seamus Cohen, I, ah, work with Talia."

Taking immediate notice of the falter in his introduction, Mercy narrowed her eyes, wondering just how much of Talia's work she was aware of; of course, it made sense she didn't know everything, but the entire situation was forcing her to question just how well she knew her friend.

Despite her reservations, she shook his hand, noting his firm handshake. "Mercy Moore. I'm Talia's friend."

Seamus raised his eyebrow but chose not to mention her hesitation. She hated how she hesitated, hated that she couldn't even say such a simple statement without faltering; if she was being honest, she didn't know if they were still friends, but she wished they were despite their falling out, and she could only hope Talia felt the same way.

"Well, it's nice to meet the owner of such a well-respected gallery," Seamus remarked, and while his temperament was far from warm, his eyes betrayed a mischievous twinkle, and Mercy wasn't sure if she should hum in impatience to his poorly concealed praise or laugh at the attempt.

"Tell me," he continued, drawing her attention away from the picture frames, his fingers forming a steeple touching the tip of his chin, "If you do happen to be informed of Talia's, erm, line of work, per se, then I would be most interested in knowing what an art gallery owner wants with a black market liaison, especially one with her field of expertise."

Trying to keep from showing her concern, she spoke in a calm, even tone, the kind she used back when she was an assistant at an emerging technology company that sold consumer electronics via online services and handling people demanding services.

"Mr. Cohen, I'm not sure who you are, or what work you happen to be in with Talia, and frankly, I don't care. Seeing as she appears to have known you for quite some time, I assume you're fully capable of passing on a message," Mercy said, her gaze trained on the younger man.

"It would be my pleasure," he assured her, earning a sharp look, raising his hands in defense before looking at her expectantly.

"Tell her I came by, and that I need to talk to her—it's important, she'll understand," she added shortly, turning on her heel and making her way out of the house, wondering how she would be getting home.

She pulled out Pepper's business card, staring at it for a good few moments, struggling not to hum as she thought about her options—options that were never really hers to make, options that had been carefully calculated long before her involvement, options taken into consideration by beings possessing far too much power for their own good.

It was because of this that she failed to perceive an unwavering gaze trained on her from a nearby bench, completely unaware of the figure's presence, now melting into the crowd.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

It's been a hot second but don't worry, I haven't forgotten about my girls! We saw a (slightly) reoccurring theme of Mercy not holding on to the relationships she has and a bit into her person and what influences that, so I hope this chapter wasn't too much nothing

Also, Seamus and Talia are main characters in my upcoming Ava Starr fic which is...complicated, to say the least, and takes place before this one. If you read between the lines, you can understand what Mercy wants with Talia and what she does, which will come in handy as we go along.

Thanks for reading!