The Dame. The Broad. Madame Noir. The Woman with Black Hair. She had so many names and came from so many places it was hard to keep track.

Behind the facade, who she truly is was hard to say anymore. They were like oil, glistening and swirling together, a rainbow of identity that only coalesces in unity when looked at the right way.

She sipped her drink, waiting for Ellington to say something.

Ice swirled in the frosted glass, clinking like neurons. Was the job just a distraction to get some time with the Emptys? Or did she really want that musty detective to find her?

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