hazel ventura | district nine | cb

H A Z E L

They underestimate what hides behind demure smiles, painted pink instead of crimson to keep them from wondering what lies beneath. Men's reflections are far more honest than their words, she thinks, eyes locked with his through her vanity's mirror as he storms through the hall in another heated argument with Leon. It happens more often these days, in hushed whispers that cling to the shadows of this grand, lonely home of theirs. They aren't her secrets to keep, but she tucks them away anyway - kept safe by the locks on her drawers.

Her power is her influence, in her notebook full of names and dates and favors yet to be collected. It's a tangled web of threads, thicker around some necks than others, those who cannot pick her face out of a crowd are few and far between. She's made damned sure not a single one has a bad thing to say. She'd grown up defined by the men she chose to stand beside. Her brother and her father before him, both of whom she'd gotten around to mourning months ago.

Even if only one is dead.

Call her a songbird but she is not the caged one. Hazel makes it no secret where her loyalties lie, but who else in the Sparrows can meet for coffee with a Crimson without fear of retribution? They need her, even if she's yet to get them to admit it.

She is sensitive, but not weak. Too many make that mistake.

And let them, it simply means they lay the world at her feet.

It waits with bated breath to be taken.