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Sasha likes puzzles.
It's all about figuring out solutions: Every puzzle is a code to be cracked, a mystery to be elegantly solved, and she's good at it.
Wilde keeps puzzles in his office, fancy ones that make Sasha’s fingers itch with the desire to take them apart and put them back together.
But the pieces are wrong; they don't fit. Laid out on Wilde's desk, there are pieces missing, and what remains are strange shapes that couldn't possibly fit into the thing she took apart. She knows, logically, that they have to.
Did he switch them out, from between her fingers?
This is like when he runs wordplays around people's heads until they don't know what's up or down, and it's rubbish. There must be a right way to do it.
Wilde's smile is too wide, turning strained when she works her gaze into him. But that might be a lie, like everything that comes out of the man's mouth, every gesture an untruth, a riddle, a puzzle.
A consolation, then, that he's never said he cares about her.
She chucks the puzzle at his face, and at least the blood that drips from his nose is real enough.