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Dia Burroughs lit a cigarette and took a long drag, she exhaled three smoke rings then blew a column of smoke through the centre of all three watching as they drifted upwards. She never smoked unless she was particularly agitated and today just happened to be one of those days. The disrespect she'd received in China was hurtful but not unexpected, however returning home to The White Tower to discover that an apparent impersonator had volunteered her for an Intercontinental Championship match against Mighty Milf was more than she could stand.
She could've complained, she could've had the match delayed, but that wouldn't have been fair to the champion, would it? She took the match jetlagged and exhausted and with no time to adequately prepare she unsurprisingly failed. Another disappointment, four losses in a row, it was humiliating.
The wind blew through Dia's hair as she looked down one hundred stories, somewhere among the broken glass and debris lied an antique armchair that she'd thrown through her livingroom window in a sudden violent outburst. The penthouse suite was what they called "beyond economical repair". Luckily nobody had been hurt and the only casualty had been a security guard on patrol who'd received quite a shock as the chair had landed just a few meters away from where he'd been standing moments earlier.
Dia thought she could see Key down there with her white hair and glowing tablet. Reliable young Key, always so diligent. Did she ever take a day off?
As the wind whipped up around Dia Burroughs she felt no fear, her shoes were slippery on the narrow ledge, one misplaced step, one errant gust of wind and it'd all be over. She closed her eyes and finished her cigarette, letting the wind carry it away.
"What is to be done?" she asked the breeze.
As usual there was no answer.
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps it's time I had a word with my husband."
