Turns out, Michaela doesn't have to even go looking for the wizard. Which, hey, that's great, right? No late-night internet trawling required (consequently, it means she doesn't have to stumble onto what Spidey has deemed the dark web – the irony, Christ -- or one of a dozen porn sites that people like to link to for shits and giggles).

Spoiler alert: This is not a fortuitous occasion for her.

It starts out simple enough – Michaela's practically crawling out of her skin with the need to do something and working two jobs isn't giving her many chances to make use of the excess electricity zipping around in her system. So she's back to lounging out on her balcony, legs hanging down from between slats of the railing, cradling the police scanner from her not-cousin and trying not to wish for something interesting to happen in her neighborhood.

And then something interesting happens.

Michaela stows the scanner and slips down from her apartment, clinging to the shadows as she makes her way to the address the 911 call was made from. It's not that far of a walk for her; she knows the area pretty well after all the nights she's spent cutting through alleyways and trailing after Daredevil, which means she's got a good handle on the best shortcuts in Hell's Kitchen. Better than the police, anyway, though to be fair they've kind of got to stick to the main roads. Can't have cops hopping the curbs just to shave a few seconds off their response time.

Still, she makes it there only a few minutes after the police, slinking her way up an adjacent fire escape so that she doesn't get caught in the red and blue flashes of light spinning out from the street. She tracks the officers to the fourth floor of the complex only because the people above and below that floor are hanging out their windows, searching for the disturbance and coming up empty.

Michaela crouches on the fire escape, peering through the open window across from her position. Men and women in uniform pass by her sightlines every so often, doubling back and thoroughly searching the room Michaela has access to after a few minutes; it's the bedroom, or one of them at least, judging by the scarce décor Michaela can make out. The edge of a bedspread; a cluttered nightstand stacked with books and picture frames alike; a cracked door that presumably leads into a closet, or an ensuite bathroom. Frowning under her mask, Michaela leverages herself upright and leans out over the railing, straining to catch even a snippet of conversation between the officers.

Should she call Matt? His hearing would be such an asset right now, she'd actually have an idea of what the fuck is happening in there. Michaela skipped out on the chatter after she heard that there was a possible break-in at this address, that a woman called in a panic, desperate for someone to come out right this second because a man she didn't know was in her house. Shit, why didn't she bring the scanner with her?

Caught up in her thoughts as she is, Michaela nearly misses the movement inside the apartment. Abnormal movement. Her eyes catch on an officer backing out of the bedroom, calling out to the others as he goes. He doesn't close the door as it hadn't been closed to begin with, so Michaela watches as the three officers who responded to the call all file out through the front door. She blinks.

That's it?

They're on street-level within minutes. One of the officers, a woman, sticks around to pacify the curious bystanders and residents of the complex, but the men get into their squad car and drive off without even a backwards glance at the building. Once she's satisfied the nosy neighbors, the woman follows suit.

Seriously, that's it?

The cool, rust-pitted metal of the railing bites into Michaela's exposed fingers as her grip on the iron flexes, her shoulders still hitched up around her ears. She's not as much of a stranger to standard police procedure as she was when she started – she learned the basic ins and outs of it from Daredevil originally, and then Matt-the-lawyer felt comfortable delving into the nitty-gritty aspects of it with her later. (Prior to that her working knowledge of police procedure came from crime dramas, so. Matt was doing the city a real service and he didn't even realize) But no matter how she looks at it, something's off here.

Releasing the railing, Michaela steps back, her gaze flitting between the still-open windows of the other residents. Most of them have ducked back inside and seem wholly unconcerned about the possibility of a crime having been committed a floor away from them, but a few linger, casting uneasy glances at the woman's apartment and the ground, where nearly all the gawking onlookers have dispersed. It might be in her best interest to grab the attention of someone who hasn't dismissed the whole thing yet, get their perspective on what happened, but – shit, she's not that confident that she won't get the police called on her.

People know Blackout now, at least in Hell's Kitchen. There was a brief uptick in interest in her superhero persona following that Instagram post by Thor, but aside from when the Asgardian occasionally makes a reference to his long-lost 'daughter' (and she will never be able to look him in the eye again, it's over, her dreams are dashed), the gossip rags don't give two shits about her. The Bulletin covers her from time to time, though mostly when she and Daredevil are spotted together. It's enough, though, that she's becoming something of a household name. She'd wager it's a fifty-fifty shot with a random individual – they might recognize her, and therefore want to throw her a bone, but they also might freak the fuck out at this masked asshole coming up to them out of the blue and interrogating them.

It's not a risk she's willing to take right now.

Michaela tugs sharply at her braid, wincing at the pull on her scalp, letting it snap her from her spiraling thoughts. Nothing to be done for it. Maybe it was a prank call, maybe the police couldn't find any evidence of a break-in, or any signs of a struggle. Maybe there's some sort of protocol she's not privy to that they're adhering to by not conducting a lengthy investigation. It's not like she's an expert, even with Matt's coaching. She didn't come here with high expectations, anyway – break-ins aren't exactly her forte, not unless the would-be robber is still on the scene. Which they clearly aren't in this case.

Michaela plucks out her phone, checking the time as she carefully descends from the fire escape. She hasn't quite reached Matt and Spidey's levels of stealth, and she's not inclined to alert the neighborhood to her presence by slipping and tumbling head-first down the stairs. Given that it's nearing midnight, she's pretty sure making a fuck-ton of noise at the scene of a faux-crime would get the police called back here in a heartbeat, and god knows Michaela doesn't need to be the first vigilante in New York to get their identity revealed by getting arrested.

(If she were into gambling... she'd put her money on Spidey, honestly; kid gets in over his head entirely too often for her liking)

There's no need to call Matt, at least, though she might've just been looking for the excuse. They haven't seen one another much since she spent the day at his apartment and finally had some quality time with Foggy and Karen – he's been busy with a case, she's been busting her ass so she doesn't get evicted for not paying rent on time. Their schedules just haven't aligned at all, and it's frustrating even if she's not expecting anything to come of them hanging out, regardless of what Karen said to her.

She did get to visit Spider-Man, though, when he texted that he needed help with a "secret project." Said project turned out to be a new and improved batch of webbing that he thought might conduct her electricity, because – in his own words – he wanted "a super special dual attack" for the two of them, for when they get to have each other's backs.

It's safe to say her heart grew three sizes that day.

And also, that the two of them nearly started at least three fires, one of which would probably have resulted in Spidey's sweats going up in flames.

Michaela was mortified; Spidey, having recorded the whole thing, mumbled to himself that this was going to get so many hits on his blog.

Michaela is often reminded why she doesn't get along with children when she's with Spider-Man, but then again, she's often reminded why she doesn't get along with most people in general when she's with anyone else, so. She'll take the trade-off.

This late, Michaela's almost alone out here. The wind's picked up some, shuffling trash along the sidewalks in lieu of the more traditional tumbleweeds and whistling in her ears, drowning out the sound of her own footsteps. She's wary of the silence, too used to the ugly city sounds that usually break up the night, but maybe that's a more recent development. She has trouble differentiating between pre- and post-vigilante life, honestly, everything's a blur to her. Paranoia might be in her blood, but it's gotten so much fucking worse now that she actively feels everything is against her – at least she thinks that's the case.

Mental health's a bitch sometimes.

Although sometimes that paranoia comes in handy.

Case in point: She's pretty sure someone's watching her. The prickling at the back of her neck points to someone following her, as well, which is. Not ideal. Obviously, she's not totally alone, it's Hell's Kitchen, and more than that it's New York – the city that never sleeps, to the point where everyone's probably gotten their insomniac card's punched to completion. What they win from that, she doesn't know; for her it's generally a shitty attitude and black half-moons under her eyes to match. Point is, though, she knows what it feels like when it's just everyone else around her existing, their eyes sliding past her just because she happens to be in their line of sight. This is staring, deliberate and cutting and making her skin scrawl with tension.

She's never had a stalker before – or whatever this really amounts to. But she's in Blackout Mode right now, and that means acting with confidence she doesn't really feel, so before she can talk herself out of it, Michaela turns around abruptly, electricity shrieking around her hands—

And it's... some guy.

Not very tall, only a few inches taller than her; washed-out blond hair, freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheeks. The only notable thing about him is neon-blue leather jacket he's wearing and the smudges of makeup around his eyes and lips, maybe his, maybe his date's. Hook-up's. Someone else's. Fuck, it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's hovering anxiously about three feet away from her, one foot stilled midair, hands half out of his pockets.

Michaela tilts her chin up, lifts her brows even knowing he won't see them behind the goggles. "You've got about five seconds to back the fuck away before I take a stab at some free-hand defibrillation."

He does step back, but it's more of a stumble than anything else, tripping over the heel of one foot in his haste to get both feet on the ground. Wide-eyed, he keeps right on staring at her, mouth gaping open. He's shaking, she realizes, a fine tremble that cascades down from his shoulders. He blinks, hard, takes a steadying breath.

"I need your help," he says, too quick, the words crashing into one another on the way out. He's breathless, sweating, and she'd say he's been running but she's had more than her fair share of panic attacks, and she can't dismiss the possibility that he's in the middle of one right now.

Hero instincts flaring to life, she lifts her hands, placating, and says, "Okay, I take back the threatening comment."

He twitches, a little, hands jerking in his pockets. "You are Blackout, right? Fuck, please be Blackout, I'm—"

"That's me," she says, soft, careful, taking the slightest of steps to bridge the gap between them. She keeps her hands up and level with her shoulders almost, desperate to appear as non-threatening as possible. God, she should have rethought the Winter Soldier shit, it's a wonder people don't just run from her screaming all the time. "Tell me what's going on and I'll do whatever I can to help."

"I..." He licks his lips, eyes darting down and away before they jump back to her face. "Someone kidnapped me."

What.

"What," she says, haltingly, unsure if she's heard right.

"I know how it sounds, okay, it sounds crazy, it sounds like I'm crazy, but I—you have to fucking believe me, I'm not crazy. I thought I was for months but that's not—" Another deep breath, shaky on the exhale. "That's not why I'm... the way I am. And this" – he presses an emphatic hand to his chest, slapping twice – "this isn't me, this isn't my body. I'm borrowing it, because someone kidnapped my actual body."

There's a moment of disconnect, where Michaela just looks blankly back at the guy while he silently wills her to understand the words leaving his mouth. Nothing he says... makes any fucking sense. Someone hijacked someone else's body? Like a mind-swap? Does that mean this guy – whoever he is – has his mind in a foreign body? Or are they... sharing headspace, so to speak?

And then she remembers that a weird unidentifiable substance hit her directly in the face a little over half a year ago and made her into the human equivalent of a sparkplug. Unfortunately for her, literally anything is possible.

"What's your name?" Michaela asks, instead of the thousand or so other questions making laps around her skull.

The guy – or... the person in front of her draws back, shoulders hitching, squinting. "I'm telling you I'm not—"

"Not that," Michaela interrupts, "not the," she flaps a hand at him – them – trying to indicate the body and not the mind its harboring, "not the host or. I don't know what you call the other person in this. Your probably-unwilling sling partner. I'm asking what your name is."

"Oh," they say, instantly docile again, the fight going right out of them. "Grace. Grace Lee. So you—"

"Let's just assume that I'm on board with whatever you're saying, alright? You got kidnapped, so I'm guessing we've got a deadline here. What can you tell me about the person who took you?"

Turns out Grace doesn't have too many details to relay to Michaela. She'd gotten home late from work, exhausted, barely blinking the sleep from her eyes as she went through the motions of throwing something together for dinner and winding down from an excruciatingly boring day at the office. She hadn't noticed anything strange in her apartment, nothing that got the ol' alarm bells ringing in her head, but then one moment she was vegetating on the couch, mindlessly watching reruns of some sitcom, and the next she couldn't move. Couldn't get up, couldn't turn over, couldn't even twitch a finger.

Grace says she caught sight of someone in a hood ("Green," she adds, adamant, "a really ugly shade of green." "Terrible taste in fashion is a common trend among criminals," Michaela replies sagely, vehemently ignoring the blatant once-over Grace gives Michaela's own super threads) before she...

"You're gonna think I'm crazy again," Grace says, wringing her hands – or, not her hands, the guy's hands, but. Fuck. Michaela doesn't know if the distinction matters at this point.

"Try me," Michaela says, because she firmly believes that the universe has doled out its top-tier bullshit for the day and that nothing can surprise her anymore.

"I... I couldn't move, right? But I started... fuck me, I can't think of any better way to say it than that I started floating."

Michaela was right. Not shocking in the slightest. "I mean... This might as well happen. Adult life is already so goddamn weird... So you're floating. What next?"

"I panicked. I don't... I've gotten better at not accidentally ejecting myself from my body, which kind of... happened a lot in the beginning. But with this, I freaked the fuck out and sent my consciousness into the closest body." She taps the guy's chest again, frowning. "He's not even going to remember me being here, the poor guy. He's gonna wake up in a random place and have no fucking clue how he got there."

"In all fairness, this is an emergency situation." Michaela reaches out, retracts her hand, then decides fuck it and moves to pat Grace's borrowed shoulder. Not much of a comfort, but that's still a skill she's leveling up at this juncture. "If he was aware of it, I'm sure he'd be cool with you taking the reins for a while."

"Oh shit!" Grace hisses, slapping both hands to her cheeks, eyes wide and manic again. "Shit, shit, we have to hurry, the farther away my real body gets from this one, the less control I have. Eventually I just... snap back to my body."

Well, that's. Not great.

Michaela doesn't know the rules of this – Grace's powers are unlike anything she's ever heard of, though she's guessing (using her extensive knowledge of nerd-dom) that it's a form of telepathy. Or telekinesis. Whichever better applies here. She has a hunch, but beyond that...

"Can you, uh, feel yourself?"

Grace twitches again, her face screwed up in the beginnings of an emotion that looks a lot like disgust.

"Fuck, not like—I mean, can you feel when you're close to your body? Because, honestly, I'm not sure how we're gonna find you otherwise. Whoever took you clearly has powers of their own, and they could be anywhere by now."

"Oh. Oh, shit, yes, yes! Sort of." Grace winces at Michaela's unsubtle grimace (clear even through the mask). "I... shit, fuck, it's... it's like a rubber band, a little, you know? There's this... tension in me, when I'm too far away from my body. If I close the distance, the tension eases up."

"Okay, okay, let's work with that. How much tension are you feeling right now?"

"A lot," Grace says, and Michaela notes that the sweating from earlier has gotten visibly worse, beading on Grace's forehead and darkening the neckline of the guy's white shirt.

Not great times two.

"That's a starting point!" Michaela declares with all the cheer she can muster, taking hold of Grace's arm and tugging her in what is definitely not a random direction. Ha, that's funny, like Michaela's plan would actually be to drag Grace in every possible direction until she starts feeling less tension. She would never be so irresponsible as to hinge the safety of a civilian-slash-victim on something as unreliable as chance. She's better than that, smarter. Cooler.

...this whole honesty thing isn't really working out for anyone, huh.

But! None of that fucking matters because it works!

Michaela's not willing to admit how lucky she gets with this one, but she is willing to say that it's not all that long until their (totally aimless) wandering brings them to a back alley sitting pretty between two abandoned buildings. Warehouses, by the looks of them, left to fester and rot and generally just attract all manner of vermin (some of them of the human variety, though Michaela's not judging, really). The alley's overrun with trash, spilling out from dented garbage cans and piled up against the walls of the adjacent buildings. The stench would probably be enough to kill one of them if Grace and Michaela weren't keyed up with adrenaline.

Michaela can't hear anything from either of the warehouses and she looks between them, searching for a sign of life anywhere. Grace only knows the general area of her body, but she's at least confident it's one of the warehouses. Michaela can tell she's feeling better even without asking; the sweating's been toned down significantly, and the deathly pallor of the guy's skin has faded in favor of its original fake tan.

"Should we flip a coin?" Grace asks, apparently only half-joking. Michaela stares, bewildered, at the quarter she's produced from the neon jacket's pocket. She drags her eyes up to Grace's borrowed face, to which Grace shrugs and says, "I think it's obvious by now that I'm useless in high-stakes situations."

Michaela wouldn't say that. Christ's sake, if Grace hadn't body-hopped in the first place then Michaela wouldn't have been able to help her at all. It might've been more instinctual than anything else, but it got the job done, and Michaela's gotta give her props for that. She gives praise where it's due, it's one of her best qualities. According to Spidey, anyway, but his opinion is equivalent to like, ten other distinct people in her book.

"Well, you haven't almost gotten shot, so. Doing better than me the first time I tried the vigilante thing."

Grace has that look about her that says she's rethinking turning to Blackout for help in this trying time, so Michaela shores up what's left of her scant courage and motions for Grace to stay where she is. Grace isn't pleased with that idea, but she also doesn't protest it, and Michaela gives her two thumbs up like an idiot before she slips over to the building to the left of the alley. The side door doesn't budge when she pulls at the handle and yanking only gets her a screeching groan of rusted metal. So that's out. She's not about scaling the wall and heaving herself through a window, either; she did it once and that's enough, and more than that, it's Spidey's territory, and she's not going to step on his sticky toes.

That leaves her with very few options, none of them any more appealing than the others. Gritting her teeth in frustration, Michaela kicks out at the door and twists around, scanning the side of the building for a more viable entrance. She's sparking, she knows – bursts of mostly-harmless electricity are crackling across every inch of her skin and diffusing into the air. It's annoying only in that it's raised the hair on her arms and the back of her neck, and it's also probably given her a passing resemblance to Einstein, but she's used to it by now; her body loves to physically express her anxiety and stress like this now, and she's just had to learn to deal with it.

Grace, though, doesn't know that. "Are you, uh... are you supposed to be doing that?"

Michaela pauses in her search, lifting a hand and splaying her fingers. She squints. Blue sparks jump between her fingers like a poor imitation of Jacob's Ladder. This might... be slightly worse than her usual brand of anxiety. There's a lot riding on her right now, okay, it's enough to make her feel like she's got bugs crawling under skin. Of course, in her case, it's not bugs – it's electricity, but. Points stands.

"Yeah, sure," is what she says to Grace, with all the conviction of a wet noodle. Grace, accordingly, does not respond with enthusiastic relief. "I get... spark-y sometimes. Means I'm full of energy. It's a good thing!"
Not a lie, really. She is quite energetic at the moment; it's just that all that energy is nervous, bordering-on-manic energy, and she's one more stressor away from literally jumping out of her skin. But Grace doesn't need to know that; someone here has to believe that Michaela can get this done, and since that ship sailed for Michaela a good fifteen minutes ago... Well. Needs must, and all that.

The reminder that someone's life is on the line (like she ever forgot, Christ, it's the only coherent thought running around in her head right now) has her doubling down on her efforts to get into the building, which brings her back to the side door. She crouches down a little, wincing at the creak of her knees, and peers at the lock. Old, she guesses, which fits in which the state of this neighborhood, and completely rusted over. She frowns, considering. It's some kind of miracle that the lock didn't crumble when she yanked at the handle the first time. Maybe she could...

Michaela shakes out her right hand, takes a deep breath. She's gotten better at concentrating the electricity into specific points – the palm of her hand, for instance, or the tips of her fingers. She's never figured out how to measure the wattage or voltage or whatever, but she's felt the heat she radiates whenever she builds up the charge. Definitely worse than singeing your fingers on a lightbulb.

Might be enough to melt what's left of this lock.

Michaela doesn't let herself overthink it. She concentrates the electricity – whatever she can muster – into the tip of her pointer finger, and from the gasp Grace lets out the sight of it must be impressive, at least before Michaela jabs her finger at the lock and the lightning show zips right into the metal innards.

Curls of smoke drift out from the lock within seconds, and there's that familiar ozone-burning scent that lingers after lightning storms. Michaela lets herself smile under the mask, pleased with her handywork. Who knew this would even—

"Fuck," she hisses, whipping her hand back from the lock and cradling it to her chest. Fuck, that hurt. And it's... ugh, her own fault apparently, seeing as the molten metal leaking out from the lock is her own doing. Typical. Ignoring the questioning noise Grace makes (Michaela doesn't need the pity and/or scorn just now, thanks), Michaela straighten up and cautiously wraps her hand around the door handle again. There's the expected jolt of something just a shade worse than static shock, courtesy of her still-sparking hand, but when she turns the handle...

Eureka! The door opens right up.

She also just thought eureka to herself, so. There's that to remember later and wonder where the fuck that impulse came from. But for now, Michaela settles for grinning triumphantly to herself and looking back for Grace's approval. Which. Not very heroic of her, sure, but that's frankly asking too much of her anyhow.

Grace's smile is watery but genuine, and Michaela offers another corny thumbs-up, too giddy with her minor victory to berate herself for it.

"You stay here, alright?" Michaela says. "I'll—"

"Fuck no, I'm coming with you."

Michaela blinks. "It's... what?"

"I'm coming," Grace says, hands on her hips, eyes alight with a challenge that Michaela is in no mood to tackle. "That's my body in there, and I'm getting it back."

That's all well and good, Michaela thinks, but there's also the issue of this poor sap that Grace is currently controlling. This is putting him in danger as much as it is Grace. And he's got no way to consent to it. Fuck, Michaela hates ethical dilemmas – it's much better when she knows who the bad guys are and she can let Matt kick the shit out of drug-dealers. Good times.

"Let the guy go first, then," Michaela says without thinking too much about it. Clearly, it's coming out of left field for Grace, too, because she gapes at Michaela, mid-emphatic hand gesture. "Let 'em go," Michaela repeats, firmer, drawing her shoulders back. "Your body's in there, you can even direct me to where you are. This guy has nothing to do with what's going on, and having him walk in there when he could get hurt, or worse? Shit thing to do, Grace. Sorry, but I'm not letting that happen."

Michaela's half-expecting fight, which they for sure do not have the time for, so she's surprised when Grace bows her head in defeat, shoulders slumping and hands dropping limply to her sides.

"You're right," she says, her mouth curled into a reluctant smile. "Like I said. Not great in high-pressure situations. Be prepared to deal with this guy, though – he's going to be, ah, disoriented."

Oh, what? She's doing it right this second? Michaela doesn't have a game plan for this! She starts to say as much, to convince Grace to wait just a fucking second, but between one moment and the next, Grace is gone. Michaela doesn't realize it at first, too tangled in the webs of her panic and anxiety, but she catches on fast – the way this guys stands is totally different from Grace. He uses his full height, despite it not being all that grand, his feet planted a few inches apart, his chest puffed out. He shakes his head, a hand pressing to his temple as if trying to forcibly shove back a headache. There's a moment where he looks around, baffled, his eyes jumping from one unfamiliar thing to the next.

Then he lands on Michaela.

"Who the fuck're you?"

Yikes, that's an annoying voice. Somehow Grace softened the hard edges, smoothed out the hitches in his words. He also sort of sounds like he's expecting to be drunk off his ass, his words not slurred, exactly, but unsteady, uncertain.

"Uh." Michaela points to herself. "Blackout? Local vigilante? Presumed illegitimate daughter of Thor? Ringin' any bells?"

The blank look he's wearing means the answer is probably a big fat no to all of that. Okay, no worries, Michaela can just. Call a fucking Uber and get this guy off the streets. Or get him to call Uber; she doesn't have her regular phone on her and she's not using Uber on her burner phone, that seems like a terrible (and amateurish) idea.

"Right," she says, clapping her hands together and startling the guy enough that he jumps back from her. Michaela rolls her eyes, glad for once the gesture's hidden behind the goggles. "You were smashed earlier, yeah? Wandered away from your friends or your date, I don't know, and you're now..." She cocks her head, surreptitiously checking the closest street sign that's just barely visible from the mouth of the alley, which she then rattles off for his benefit. "Here. For some reason. Didn't, ya know, catch your life story while I was... stopping you from getting mugged?" Flimsy excuse, but she rolls with it. "Because, as previously mentioned, I'm a vigilante. Hero, fuck. I'm a."

She pauses, considering his wide eyes and defensive stance. "I'm... not the Winter Soldier?" she tries, and the immediate relief that floods through this guy is offensive somehow, though she couldn't put her finger on why if you asked her to. "Okay, look, I know the goggles and the mask are similar but, my dude, my guy, if I radiate even a fraction of the murder vibes that man gave off, then I'd have been arrested already."

Not that the police haven't tried their damnedest to make that happen, but. If he doesn't know jack-shit about her vigilante track record, then he doesn't need to know about all that.

God, what Michaela wouldn't give for the Men in Black flashy-things that rewrite a person's memory. They'd make this shit-show a helluva lot easier to navigate.

"You're free to go," Michaela says eventually, gesturing expansively to the street. The guy tracks the movement with his eyes but doesn't move to leave. "I'm not, uh. Holding you hostage? Or whatever you're thinking?" She rolls her hand, motioning for him to scamper off, back to whatever drug-induced euphoria Grace likely pulled him away from. "Um. Please go?"

"Fucking freak," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets and pivoting sharply on his heel to storm out of the alley. She waits until she hears him on the phone with someone, loudly complaining about the fucking freak who probably fucking abducted him before she flips him the finger and turns back to the warehouse.

Okay. One problem crossed off the list. Now she just has to find Grace and get her the hell out of this warehouse. Easy.

Famous last words, Michaela thinks, pinching the bridge of her nose, before she ducks into the darkness of the warehouse.