Ling was silent as he was introduced, and his nod of acknowledgement turned more into a small semi-bow of respect. He had seen the calm, collected assassination of the Naval Forces pilot. If a killing could inspire a sense of awe and beauty, there she was. Moreover, Ling felt a feeling that he hadn't felt in a while. He was nervous. Before him wasn't the righteous fury of Raphael Drake, who dispatched his targets with prejudicial swiftness, nor the near-psychotic, violent, and murderous efficiency of Mildred Wolfe. At least Wolfe had the decency to cross the line from crazy lady into intelligent monster. She who stood before him had more control over the atmosphere than himself. It was almost as if reality bent around her to cradle her desires, whatever they may be. Just in her approach, she had beaten him at his own game. Well, He thought to himself being terrified won't get me far. He took his wooden muddler in his hand, a veiled display of his tool of choice.
