I don't know why I'm writing this to you. You can't read it, so what's the point? Sentiment? You and I both know there's no room for that kind of sentiment. But I can't seem to stop myself and this idiocy.

I slept with Wesley. I know you hated him and being with him definitely wasn't something you wanted, but I needed not to think. And he's easy to be casual with. That's what it is, really. Casual sex. He's aro, so I'm not expecting anything more. Not really sure I'd want more if he wasn't. Not this soon. Not with him.

I don't regret it. I'm going to keep fucking him, all goes well. He's surprisingly good, though. I bet you'd hate to hear that. But I do feel like I should tell you. Not that it does you any good. Still, it's been said, I guess.

I miss you, Tolya. Funny that, isn't it? Me missing anyone. Guess you were that fucking important to me. I'm sorry I didn't make sure you knew that before. I love you.

Maya hits send on the message, ignoring the rising feeling of embarrassment and disgust at the need to write it in the first place. Vladimir doesn't know where Anatoly's phone was - although it doesn't make much of a difference given that it was locked, probably in a ditch somewhere, and/or out of battery. No one will read it. No harm no foul.

It still doesn't stop her from feeling childish. She doesn't believe in ghosts or an afterlife. So what good are texts to a dead man? She turns off the screen, slipping her phone back into her pocket, and does her best to ignore what she's just done. It's not as though she's going to do it again, after all.

It's a strange feeling to have the night free for once. She feels as though she's been busy for the past few weeks. Between doing odd jobs for Fisk, keeping up with her social life, and hunting Black Mask, she hasn't had much time for frivolity.

She takes another of sip of cognac before setting the snifter down on the edge of the piano. It's been so long since she last composed, too long. The night she practically destroyed her apartment doesn't really count, she thinks, even though there's a faint stain on the keys that the cleaners couldn't get rid of.

That doesn't stop her from replaying the notes she had drawn out in her misery. She knows what all of the keys sound like in theory, and the piece she had spontaneously created isn't half bad. It just needs some polishing. She works more with it, feeling the vibrations which vary with each improvisation she throws in.

What does she want this piece to say? Should this piece be one of sorrow, like it was that night? Or a celebration of her time with Anatoly? The more she plays with it, the more she's uncertain. Maya stops, fingers hitting the keys harder than she would if she was playing, and takes a longer draw of her cognac.

She plays it from the beginning, trying to work it into something more free. Composing always comes easier to her the less she thinks about it. When she plays instinctually, paying more attention to what keys she's playing than which ones she should, she lets the feel lead her to where it needs to be. It's very similar to what she does when learning to fight in new forms.

She laughs to herself at how fitting it seems to her. Incapable of acting properly if she hyper-focuses on the future, incapable of acting at all if she dwells too deeply on the past. Only the present can allow her the simultaneous fluidity and rigidity she needs to function as a perfect unit. Control through spontaneity. No wonder her teachers in the Hand hated working with her.

You cannot rely on chaos alone, she remembers Azuma telling her many years ago. Chaos requires order to exist. You must have a basis of order, a core of self-discipline. If not, you will die.

But beings of complete order couldn't change, couldn't evolve, couldn't keep up as the world left them behind. Azuma had died because of this. He wouldn't bend, couldn't, and so he broke under the strain. Maya isn't one to ignore the mistakes of others.

The reverberations of the notes feel pleasant, feel right, and she smiles as she realizes she has found what she had been looking for. It feels like a reflection. Pulling from the grief, but there's this lovely fade into reminiscence.

She's halfway through the next set when there's a sudden shake. It throws off her playing as the entire building gives a shudder, her glass slipping off the edge of the piano and shattering against the floor. She's on her feet in an instant, her hands gripping the sides of the piano too tightly, looking around in a slight panic.

The second quake comes just seconds after, shaking more than the first. It takes Maya a second to recognize the feeling as explosions, the second one being closer than the first had been. A third hits as she tries to stand. She leaves the piano, composition forgotten, and rushes to the floor to ceiling window. A fourth explosion goes off as she stumbles across the room and into the glass.

The city is on fire.

At least, pieces of the city is on fire. Twisting infernos, flames raging high above the buildings, dot the city's skyline not too far from her apartment. A couple blocks separated each fire, making them look almost like beacons in the night. Maya watches in horror as another street corner goes up in flames with a furious shake.

What is happening?

She stands before the glass, the city illuminated in patches by the raging flames, trying to justify the madness. The longer she peers at the fires, the more she feels there's something she's missing. She squints at the different locations and quickly counts the blocks.

Leftmost had to be about 47th and 12th. Which would make the next one on 44th and 11th. Another just barely in sight at 42nd and 10th, give or take. The last is at 48th and 9th.

Her eyes widen as it dawns on her.

"Vladimir," she whispers, immediately turning on the balls of her feet.

She doesn't stop to grab her armor, instead throwing on her jacket and grabbing a scarf from the counter without stopping on her way out. Bypassing the elevator entirely, Maya takes the stairs three at a time. She wraps the scarf around her neck, practically into a chokehold, as she shoves through the door without a word to the concierge. The second it's tied securely, she pulls a section of it above her mouth and nose.

She's not particularly close to the areas of the explosions, but the smell of burning is enough to make her gag. It's a nauseating mix of chemicals, smoke, gasoline, and flesh. There are people running everywhere, pushing in the opposite direction as Maya shoves her way through them. She can already feel a layer of ash and grit coating her skin. Whatever else is floating in the air makes her eyes water.

Everything is still processing in her mind even as she shoves through the chaos directly for nearest site. The second the crowds allow, Maya breaks out into a full sprint. She puts together a mental list, quickly going through every acquaintance and colleague she's ever met or known the Ranskahovs to do business with, as she nears the rubble surrounding one of the compounds. Whoever was responsible had been familiar enough to know the location of every warehouse Vladimir and Anatoly used.

Which means there is a disturbing security leak. It means no one is safe. And Maya definitely isn't okay with that sort of implication. On top of having a concerning amount of knowledge about Fisk's empire's workings, the attack shows courage and defiance against Fisk that she hadn't thought existed in any of their compatriots.

The police are just arriving on the scene as she reaches 44th, dodging into the flickering shadows, finding a hard time hiding between the flames and the police lights. She half stumbles through the rubble, trying to make her way quickly through the broken cement and rebar without getting hurt. The heat is blistering and the ash burns her eyes as she sweeps through the mess.

There are a lot of dead bodies. All from Vladimir and Anatoly's men, from what she can tell. The smell of burning skin and hair is more cloying here, mixing with what she can only guess is the smell of heroin and plastic, and Maya has to stop herself from gagging.

A slight movement catches her eyes, the slightest glimpse of a bloody hand twitching from beneath a sizeable slab of concrete. She hops over the ruin as quick as she can. The man she finds isn't one she recognizes, though much of his face is obscured by cement and blood, but he is still somehow alive.

Maya kneels down to get a closer look at him, "Can you hear me?"

He barely stirs. She grabs him by the chin roughly, his eyes snapping open with a look of fear. The flash of emotion causes her to let go of him and she leans over further.

"Can you hear me?" she repeats.

He says something, likely in Russian by the way he moves his mouth, but he gives a nod.

"Where's Vladimir?"

Again, he opens his mouth and obviously says something in response, but Maya can't make anything from the shaking of his lips. They barely seem to move at all. It infuriates her, how she could be so close to what information she needs, but unable to tell what's being said because he's in too much pain to enunciate properly.

She gives an irritated snarl, digging her nails into the man's shoulders, "Is he here?"

He shakes his head. It's an answer, at least, and she presses forward.

"Do you know where he is?"

Perhaps she shouldn't be using present tense. The damage is extensive, and there are a lot of bodies in this wreckage alone, which doesn't bode well for Vladimir if was at one of the compounds at the time. But she refuses to let herself doubt that he may be alive. They had never had a particularly smooth relationship, but Maya feels to owes it to Anatoly to keep his brother alive.

For a third time, the man says something incomprehensible and Maya very nearly snaps his collarbone, "I can't understand what you're saying if you don't at least try to speak clearly. I'm not going to hurt him, but I need to know where he is. So, again, do you know where Vladimir is?"

It takes him a few more times, but she manages to catch the word 'twelve', and knows immediately that he means the compound at 47th and 12th. She breathes a sigh of relief that it's not the furthest one from where she is now. He reaches out weakly for her as she pulls back, but she ignores him. She doesn't have the time to help him and, even if she did, she wouldn't know where to start. Between the cops beginning to get out of their cars and not having the equipment to help him, Maya knows she doesn't have a choice.

His fingers scrabble across the rubble as he reaches out, but she turns away and heads towards 47th. The roads are clearer here, fewer pedestrians running for safety, and the cop cars don't seem to have reached this far yet.

Between the thick smoke and the heat, Maya's throat and lungs burn with the exertion. She's tired and tipsy and worried. She can't help but wonder if this is what Anatoly had to go through when he had been alive. Not the bombs, of course, but the constantly having to save him from dangers least expected.

She skids to a stop as she turns the corner, keeping as close to the shadows as she can. There are dozens of police crawling around the ruined building. A light flashes deep inside the building, an unmistakable sight to her, and she bites back bile in her throat. They're shooting the survivors.