I turn up the volume of my television, to stick my head inside my refrigerator. The disembodied voice of the newscaster reaches me thanks to my stratagem, muffled but audible.

"Hello, folks! Today is Saturday, December 9th, but I hope you are all wide awake for some news. On the front pages today, you will find that famous clothing manufacturer David Merc..."

I slow down the pace of my rummaging among the selection of food and beverages, momentarily lifting an eyebrow as I recognize the crooked man's name. 

The anchor keeps spouting out his script, "... was murdered last night at the Archie Goodwin International Airport."

I freeze, holding a container of cheddar cheese.

"... was on his way to board his private jet when four unidentified individuals seized him and shot him in front of more than a dozen witnesses."

I gasp softly, nearly whimpering as anxiety explodes in my stomach and detonates inside my chest. My breaths are uncontrollable and sporadic as I listen to the continuation of the news story.

"The situation is under close investigation by the GCPD, who have also ordered that no planes be allowed to depart until the four people who assaulted Mr. Merc are apprehended. In other news..."

I have exited my appliance, staring blankly at the torrent of news on my television screen.

So, he was following Cheryl's advice... Too late, though. Losing that supply cost him his life.

I toss the tub that protects my cheddar block onto the countertop.

Because of my actions, he is dead.

I cannot think like that, no matter how easy it is to blame myself. He chose this end when he became a criminal, surely. A man with influence and a long list of dirty deeds, rich with drug money, could have been targeted for any other reason. Maybe our actions did not accelerate his death...

I briskly yank the container of cheese open and rip out a chunk of cheddar from the corner of the brick. Shoving the dairy in my mouth, I march into my living room and turn off the television screen.

~

Twenty-five push-ups, fifteen crunches, twenty squats, thirty-five jumping jacks, thirty lunges, a slightly obscene amount of cheddar, three crosswords and twenty minutes of watching videos of amateur roller skating competitions later, I hop into a lukewarm shower.

Colin is picking me up for our second date at 2h45 PM, he is taking us to 'Natalia's Balls & Bar'. As disturbing as its name is, it is supposedly an "awesome" glow-in-the-dark mini-golf course, complete with a restaurant that obviously doubles as a bar.

While Colin and I joked about the establishment's name, and he attempted to convince me that I would enjoy an evening there, I peeked into his mind.

Foul Play recently taught me how to sweep a psyche to search for basic information, that might be stored in an easily accessible part of the brain without necessarily appearing in an individual's current thoughts or immediate consciousness. Lately, I have been practicing to reach fresh or frequently recalled memories.

Within a few seconds of digging, I discovered that the location is a recommendation from Scott, hence my agreement to go there. If our colleague likes that place, how bad can it be? I am no stranger to suspicious Gotham businesses, however I would not visit one on a date.

As I am patting myself down with my bath towel, intentionally confronting my naked body in the mirror, I hear my cellphone pinging through the door. I never bring my phone in the bathroom, it is force of habit to avoid the dangers of electronics meeting moisture or those of pernicious hackers contriving to obtain snapshots of my unclothed body. I leave the device out in the hallway in case of an emergency, though.

Fully dressed and still rubbing my dripping hair with another towel, I exit the washroom and consult my messages. I have not touched my cellphone since before lunch. Let's see... 13 notifications?

Eight of the texts constitute of a short and entertaining argument between Joseph and Cedric, preceded by a meme to begin their very unserious lovers' spat. Persephone sent me this exact same meme a quarter of an hour later with a comment regarding it; I am guessing her uncles probably shared it with her, in the first place.

Two of the three remaining communications are from Colin.

(How do you feel about matching outfits tonight)

I press on the picture he sent, smiling as it finishes loading. I am contemplating a selfie, captured in an angle beneath his waist. Grinning into the camera, the blond man is wearing a neon orange cap that seems two sizes too large paired with a neon safety vest from work... Which is hanging, clumsily or purposely half-fastened against his bare torso. His left pectoral is mostly exposed and the lower right corner of his defined abdominal muscles is not covered, to say the least.

I feel heat prickling my cheeks, and an unusual nervosity flickers inside of my mind. I shamelessly pinch the screen's surface, zooming in and out on certain parts of the photography.

Realizing that my shoulders are tense, and I am holding my breath, I rapidly shut off my portable phone. Clearing my throat, chuckling and exhaling to pry my clenched teeth apart, I finally settle on crossing my arms and focusing on the almost cold wet towel in my left fist.

I was not spending my days fantasizing about Colin before and I won't start now.

I smirk, replying:

(I'll stick to what I got planned! Where did you find that cap? It's a hazard 😂😱)

The last message I received is from Cheryl, it reads:

(You can give it away now when you feel the time is right ❤)

I compose a vague text message of agreement, aware of the stupidity of leaving any written receipts of our outing and activities concerning David Merc or of any future missions.

I bought a new spreadsheet notebook to keep track of the donations I will be making with the money the vigilante borrowed from him and, then, so kindly dumped on me to use fairly. She is lucky I am of a careful nature.

Living in Gotham City and frequenting worrisome locations - as well as their dubious visitors -, I thought it wise to elaborate a more complex manner of hiding my valuables.

There is a wide envelope containing most of the documentation for my apartment's lease and my - now unsalvageable - electric car and nearly one thousand dollars, taped to the back of the mirror that hangs between my entryway and my living space. This consists of my fake hidden stash of assets and remains in that position at all times. It is meant to distract any potential robber from finding my safe, letting them assume that the envelope holds my life savings and everything worth stealing.

The safe I acquired  is screwed to the inside of the right storage cavity of the modest vanity in my bedroom. The left side of the article of furniture is not identical, it has drawers instead, making the design perfect for alterations. In front of the safe, I installed a fake back and shelf, even going as far as putting objects on the shelf and underneath it. If anyone opens that door, all they will see is a stocked cabinet, belonging to a regular dressing table. That safe is where I keep the remaining legal documents for my car and home, alongside my real valuables and critical items. Right now, it also happens to newly safeguard one hundred grand, a blank personal finances notebook, a silver mask, two golden boots and a leathery suit.

~

Colin and I are strolling casually in the direction of the first mini-golf hole, having just selected our ball and club colors. I naturally picked blue, and Colin resorted to orange.

He shows me the fluorescent ball, amusedly exclaiming, "See, now I won't ever forget my cap!"

"I don't think I'll ever forget that cap, either." I laugh, hinting at the selfie he sent me.

/Maybe my picture had some effect, after all..!/

His pleased hopeful thought is laced with an undertone that sends a shiver down my spine. Unfortunately, I cannot identify the emotion that sparked it.

"Nothing will ever honor my magnificent cap more than that picture."

I snicker at his falsely confident statement.

"I mean, I've seen worse, I guess..?" I tease him.

"It was artistic!! You didn't look at it close enough, that's the problem."

I self-assuredly retort, "I can tell you right away, that's not the problem."

I let my eyes linger into his gray ones, wondering if my subtle confession is too obvious.

/Fuck! Yeah! They totally liked my picture.../

"I forgot you were an artist yourself. Your shirt is messing with my head, it's really cool."

He chuckles, while I thank him.

"Thank you very much, I bought it in a thrift store."

The oversized T-shirt has a patchwork appearance, blending tie-dye with psychedelic patterns, entirely in black over plain white. Bringing attention to yourself when you are living alone in Gotham City is pure madness, therefore I have not worn it on many occasions, if any. Since the UV lighting makes anything white glow and all things black disappear, I could not resist choosing it for our date.

/I gotta stay focused, don't think about taking Tanza's shirt off. That's not how you were raised, Colin, c'mon..!/

Another recognizable voice crosses my consciousness, /Well, I'll be damned..!/

"HELLO!" hollers the powerful manly voice, aloud.

I rotate my head, seeing Scott dodging people in the crowd to walk over to us. He is arriving from the other side of the wrap-around platform, which is carelessly surrounding a gigantic opening that reveals lower floors of the mini-golf course.

Our fellow paramedic is accompanied by none other than Ousmane and two beguiling women, their partners.

The ginger enthusiastically greets us, spreading his arms, "If it isn't my boys Colin and Tanza on a hot date! How are you guys?!"

Colin and I lock eyes, both of us smirking because of our gregarious colleague's manners and at each other.

I reply, "Hey! We're great, thanks. And you? What are you all doing here?"

"I'm happy as can be! I'm on a hot date myself. A double date, actually." He winks, then jerks his right thumb to point at Ousmane.

The Senegalese man's smile is wide and earnest, per usual.

"It's good to see you, Tanza. And you are Colin, yes? Let me introduce myself properly, I am Ousmane."

His girlfriend introduces herself during their handshake. "My name is Dienaba, pleasure to meet you both."

Dienaba is tall and her dark skin tone is similar to Ousmane's, but a lighter coffee shade from what I can discern, despite the strobe lights and the overwhelming purple lighting. Her hair is on the shorter side, styled to display her natural curls. She is wearing a form-fitting light blue denim jumpsuit that appears lilac in this ambience and a plentiful quantity of rings.

I am already acquainted with Mi-Young, Scott's fiancée, from her occasional visits at the hospital. This logic also applies to Colin, on top of the many times he has spoken with her at get-togethers I did not attend.

Mi-Young is equally as drop-dead gorgeous as Dienaba, but completely opposed physically. The woman has native Korean parents; she is extremely slender and of average height, with ivory porcelain skin and pale lime green eye contacts. Last time I saw her, I think they were either blue or dark green. Mi-Young's hair is different from then, as well, thanks to her collection of wigs. Today, her choice is long, dark brown and wavy synthetic hair, with pink-hued light brown highlights.

After tugging on the flared sleeves of her muted pink dress, hanging around a white woolen turtleneck sweater, she pulls out her cellphone from a mint-colored leather-adjacent handbag. Her phone case is a plastic polar bear with a pastel rainbow scarf and glittery inner ears and paws.

She gently taps the screen with her glossy French tips.

"It's still early! Would you two like to join our game?"

I nod at Colin, having heard his thoughts and knowing he wants to accept.

"Why not? It's your funeral, though. Tanza and I are certified mini-golf champions!" my date taunts them.

"We'll see about that, big guy," jokingly challenges Dienaba, over Mi-Young's delicate laughter.