Eve sat on the couch, mindlessly flipping through tv channels with no real goal in mind or intent to actually watch anything. Things had been like this since Paris; sad, boring, lonely. Not even a week after her return home she was signing divorce papers, saying goodbye to Niko. Kind, loving, boring Niko.
She thinks about Paris a lot. About the way Villanelle looked at her while laying side by side. About warm, sticky blood flowing through her fingers. She remembers the rush of adrenaline she had felt in the moment, and how the horror and guilt over what she did had instantly hit her full force, making her regret it.
She thinks about that day so much that it not only takes up her conscious thoughts, but also her dreams. Some nights she watches herself plunge the knife into Villanelle over and over again, feeling like she can’t stop, no matter how badly she wants to. Other nights its her that is stabbed as she watches Villanelle’s smile curve into a sinister smirk. Sometimes there’s no knife and Eve lets her kiss her.
Eve shuts off the tv, shaking her head as if to dismiss those thoughts. She’s fine, she’s moving on and attempting to live a normal life. At least that’s what she tells herself, ignoring the piles of research on the blonde’s whereabouts she’s done since that day.
She makes her way over to the kitchen to make dinner, or more accurately scrounge around in the cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. Niko had been the cook in their relationship, and since he left Eve’s meals have consisted of freezer food and greasy takeout.
While rummaging around in the fridge Eve’s train of thought is suddenly interrupted, a loud sound from the other end of the apartment catching her attention. Her mind instantly thinks of Villanelle and how she could finally be coming to get her revenge, but she quickly brushes that though aside. Villanelle isn’t here, it was nothing, she doesn’t need to worry. She repeats this like a mantra until she can get her breathing back to a normal rate.
She goes back to searching through the fridge, until the sound of footsteps creaking on wood makes her freeze in place.Her mind is sent racing again, could it really be her? Did she really survive the stabbing? Does she want to kill her? Every bone in Eve’s body is screaming at her to move, but she can’t make herself turn around.
“Eve Polastri,” a voice calls out, thick russian accent, definitely male and definitely not Villanelle. She is going to pretend she didn’t feel any disappointment about this realization.
Eve finally turns around to see a man standing in her living room, dressed head to toe in black. His face is covered in stubble and he has a noticeable scar just above his eyebrow. She almost laughs at how he fits the perfect stereotype of a television vilain, but the gun in his hand stops her.
Now in full fight or flight mode, Eve scans the room looking for anything she could use as a weapon to fend him off. There’s a knife holder on the counter but its out of reach, and it's not like she’s prepared to fight off a trained assassin. Her attempt on Villanelle the time she broke in hadn’t exactly worked out in her favor.
She thinks about the gun she had purchased during the investigation, and how it was safely locked away upstairs, proving to be no help to her now. This was just her luck, being caught in the one place with no escape path.
Making a split second decision, Eve decides to lunge for the knives, even with knowing she doesn’t really stand a chance.
The sound of a gunshot is extremely loud when it echoes through the kitchen.