<div style="text-align: center"><u><b><span style="font-size: 22px">Erica Lewis</span></b></u><br/>
<span class="bbc-spoiler bbc-spoiler-instant" data-class="bbc-spoiler" data-xf-click="toggle-class" role="button" tabindex="0">[[I went with trying to give a taste of Erica's lifestyle and to semi-engage Marty too, <br/>
if I should provide more context or info, please do tell me and I'll add, <br/>
for now I went with less spoilers and more suspense.]]</span><br/>​</div>There was little to do in her apartment when the sun insisted on hiding behind clouds. Research required access to databases, and that included having a working, powered computer, which the lack of energy nulled for Erica Lewis at the time. Was she going to spend her days laying down, lounging on her sofa, going through options in her head? Fuck no.<br/><br/>With her boots on, reaching all the way to the middle of her calves, she was out there in the streets, unbothered by the rain when it came to checking things off her task list. It did bother her head however, so she wore a gray hoodie under her leather jacket as she roamed between blocks, water dropping on her nose from time to time something annoying. So up went her free, left hand, fingers curled in a loose fist, to wipe that moisture off her dotted nose and tug the hoodie's rim further down her dark forehead, whereas the right hand remained hidden in the warmth of her pocket, clutching her notepad and pen, keeping those pages dry for the time.<br/><br/><i>They should be somewhere around here.</i>Erica thought to herself as her dark brown eyes latched onto the wet, still dirty windows of the tall building to her far left, halting in her tracks to lean her side and her backpack against the nearest wall; she turned her head to shoot a glance at the yellow thing walking by, perking up a shapely brow, and unclear would it be to an onlooker whether she was confused, impressed, annoyed or anything in between, for she sometimes suffered from an affliction called R.B.F., or Resting Bitch Face.