[center][h2][color=orange] Debora White [/color][/h2][/center][hr]

Debora paused at the sound, one hand against the cool metal doorknob and the other poised to tug a seal coat off the rack beside the door. Around her, the office and its contents were shrouded in shadow. She had turned out the lights before donning her costume. It was her familiarity with the building that warned her of the intruder and this same familiarity gave her a sense of confidence. Unlike Wilde Hall, the office was Debora White’s domain.

In the moment she had to react, Debora opened the door slightly and stepped to the side. Pressing herself into the nook beside the oversized dark coat, she drew her small revolver from the pocket and waited. She held the gun low, hoping to shield the metallic surface from reflecting the scarce light.

Through the slit opening of the door, Debora could make out a figure mounting the stairs in the darkness. Torn fabric hung from them, lighter shadows clinging to the dark form. A hand grasp the banister, the other was held against them, nursing a wound more grievous than the limp in their leg? With her nerves so tightly strung, Debora had expected an apparition of evil or at the least the vengeful subject of an old case. This figure seemed to be neither. Yet why were they ascending the stairs towards her office in grim determination and not a doctor’s practice?

A flicker of apprehension mixed with hope caused Debora to push the door open further and lower her firearm yet more. She called a broken syllable before correcting. [color=orange] “Who’s there?” [/color] Carefully, Debora gauged their reaction.

The figure raised their head, features illuminating slightly in the weak light. Debora felt her stomach drop as her hopes were dashed and new worries built. She did not know the pale face looking back at her with red bloodshot eyes and wild dark hair.

[b]"Mrs White?"[/b] The voice was rough and forced, as if each word, each breath was agony.

With her outfit of layered velvet and heavy silk hiding her form and her face obscured by both mask and veil, even those who knew her well might mistake Debora. [color=orange] “I am,” [/color] She answered as she dropped her arm to her side, the gun weighing her hand. She did not feel threatened by this obviously wounded figure, but the risk of the unknown remained.

[color=orange] “You’re injured. Come inside, I’ll phone a doctor.” [/color] How the figure answered would determine Debora’s action moving forward. Hidden in her brief wording, questions lay. I mean you no harm, do you intend me harm? Are you here under shadowed circumstances?

The man started forwards at Debora's suggestion of calling a doctor, his face twisting in anguish as he reached a hand towards her. [b]"No. You can't..." [/b]

As he lifted his hand away from the banister, his legs gave way beneath him, his dragging feet catching on the top step, and he tumbled forwards. Sprawling to the ground, the man did nothing to stop his fall, landing hard with a pained grunt. His shoulder impacted with the ground at Debora's feet, his body twisting so that he was splayed on his back. 

Debora winced as the figure slammed to the floor at her feet. Quickly, she took in his bloodied shirt and unfocused eyes. Her mind flashed to other forms on other nights. Debora slipped her handgun back into the coat’s pocket and loosened a thick white scarf from around the collar. Balling it in her hands, she knelt beside the wounded man.

[color=orange] “No doctor then, but you’ll have to let me tend you. What injured you?” [/color] And because of the glassy appearance in his eyes, she added, [color=orange] “Why were you seeking me?” [/color]

As she poised to open his shirt, Debora studied her long satin gloves and then ripped them off, being mindful only of the ring on her left hand and cast them back into the office. Every tick of the clock behind her was like a drumbeat in her ears. On this of all nights an injured man had to show up at her door- But of course it must be tonight, Debora thought. She did not put much faith into coincidence. Her plans and this man, somehow both were connected.

The wild eyes appeared to focus on Debora, or as much as they could focus, as she knelt beside the stranger. This close, she could smell the blood on his breath, see that is stained his lips. Even without her experience in first aid, she would know that that was not a good sign. 

With obvious effort, the man managed to speak again, each word coming ragged and pained. 

[b] "Mary... I know... She said you were a friend. I need to..." [/b]

As Debora opened the man's shirt, his word descended into hacking, wet coughs, shaking his entire body. Blood was already pooling on the floor, thick and dark. As Debora peeled back the soaked shirt, the cause of the bleeding quickly became apparent. It was a wound the like of which she had never seen. The man's chest was sinewy and thin, the skin pulled tight across his ribs, and through the middle of his chest, there was a gaping wound. It took her a moment to realize that she could see the floor through it, that somehow, it was as if something had been driven through him. He was as good as dead. Debora knew that there was nothing that she could do to save him, only sheer willpower could have kept him alive long enough to reach her. Never one to be defeated, Debora's hands began to move instinctively, going through the motions of tending to the wound, but before she could, a hand caught her wrist in an iron grip. 

Turning sharply, Debora found herself looking into the pale, haggard face of the man. For the first time, his eyes seem truly focused, and there is a burning intensity in them.

Haltingly, he issued a dire warning.

Then the intensity bled out of the eyes, and the head slumped back. Debora watched the man die, solemnly clinging to his loosening hand. She did not draw away from the corpse as his last breath rattled within his broken torso or as his blood seeped to the floor around her knees. Debora wondered at what series of events had sent him to die on her doorstep. His connection to Mary, the ghastly state of his body and clothing, his dreaded warning that even now rang in her ears. If only he had another moment to speak. Now she worked to gather as much information as possible from his appearance alone. His ragged clothing and the myriad nicks and cuts on his limbs and face told of a staggering run through thick brush, far from any beaten path. For Debora, little doubt remained about where he had ventured from.

She stared a moment longer at the gaping wound in his chest and laid his arm gently across it. As she stood, her hands moved quickly, spreading out the wide scarf. The white fabric illuminated faintly in the low light as it draped over the corpse, obscuring the features. A single breath caught in her throat.

Then Debora reentered her office, collecting her gloves as she paced to the phone at her desk. She drew them on while waiting for the operator to connect her. Briskly, she spoke to the man who answered in Yiddish, informing him of the body and refusing to provide any further explanation. She tracked the minute movements of the clock while shrugging on her coat. Her fingers brushed the revolver in her pocket as she locked up and slipped the key through the puddle of blood and beneath the door. From inside, the phone rang once and was silent.

Debora lowered her eyes as she started down the stairs, her gaze flicking over the gruesome trail left by the dead man.