Lexa was crash landing in her tiny apartment in moments, agitated energy and frustration making her careless and clumsy. She tumbled to the ground with a grunt, legs tangling in the rumpled bedsheets she didn't account for. Frank the doberman just looked up, accustomed to her sudden appearances and disappearances. Lexa tore at the sheet wrapping around her feet, ripping it away at hurling it against the wall. It landed with an unsatisfying thump. Gritting her teeth, Lexa fisted her hands on the ground and got ready to push herself up –

Only for Frank to lumber over and plop himself down across her lap.

Lexa fell back at the weight across her body, barely catching herself on her elbows. Frank laid his head down on the floor, closing his eyes. The fire burning in Lexa's throat was doused suddenly, her old dog's influence bringing her back. With a tired sigh, she let herself fall back, laying flat on the floor of her apartment. 

Stupid stupid she was so [i]stupid[/i]. How could she not see it was him? He even used the same damn [i]name[/i]. And she'd gotten drinks with him, she'd confided in her, like an [i]idiot[/i] and then she'd let him get away. Well. She'd actually been the one to run from him. With a disgusted snort she threw her arms over her face, squeezing her eyes shut. 

What a shit day. She'd murdered a guy. She'd failed to murder a different guy.

With a sigh she moved her arms and opened her eyes again. Lexa pushed herself back up onto her elbows and looked down at her dog. Good lord she was tired. She began the process of trying to scoot out from under Frank, scratching his head when he made sounds of displeasure. Eventually she was free. Lexa forced herself to her feet. 

One shower later, she was no less tired, but at least she was clean. The cuts on her knuckles were already starting to heal. Lexa spent a long moment standing outside the shower, lost in thought. Then, coming to a decision, she pulled her black outfit from where she'd left it in the dryer. Soon enough Trick stood in her apartment, dyed black hair and all.

This was likely the opposite of what she needed. The city was halfway between hating her and being terrified of her. She was an unstable wreck. She was dangerous.

Trick grabbed her katana from where it leaned against the wall and tied the sheath to her belt. Then she disappeared. 

It didn't take long for the sound of sirens to draw her attention as she moved through the city. She came upon a wide semi-circle of officers hiding behind the open doors of their cruisers, guns ready and aimed at some old warehouse. Apprehension built in Trick's chest. He was in there. She knew it. Fighting to keep her pulse low, she silently teleported inside through a foggy window and perched on one of the old rafters. She made her way through the building, following a trail of bodies until she found him. Her hand rested at her sword, her thumb pushing the hilt up at the rest of her fingers curled around the sheath. 

Down below, Black Jack killed the man he'd been fighting last night. Another man, suited and poised, watched impassively. The officers outside shouted through a loudspeaker for Black Jack to give himself up. Trick's heart was in her throat, her muscles itching for some sort of release.

In the next moment Trick was behind the man, the edge of her sword pressed tightly against his throat. 

Her eyes were sharp as she glared at Black Jack, amber flashing gold with anger. Her threat hung like a solid thing in the air between them: she'd steal his vengeance from him.

Trick honestly didn't know if she was bluffing or not. 

While she watched Black Jack, her attention didn't waver from the man she held at sword-point. Her muscles were coiled and still, taught like a bowstring and ready to react. She wouldn't be caught unawares again.