CHANTELLE WAS SPRAWLED OUT ACROSS HER BED, ADAMANTLY REFUSING TO LOOK AT HER COMPUTER SCREEN. She had been searching for a new studio for the past three days, turning up absolutely nothing. Her old studio, the one in Brooklyn that had been a pain to get to each day, was no longer available, and nothing nearby fit her; they were all either too big and expensive, or too small to work with, sometimes with outrageous prices considering the size. She had exhausted every resource in the book, finally landing on Craigslist.

"There's nothing wrong with Craigslist," Nikki said, the two of them making their way towards the nearest Starbucks, walking side-by-side.

Amanda was at work and Nikki's case had to be rescheduled due to problems on the defendant's side, so she had called Chantelle, convincing her to stop moping and groaning over her search for a studio and get coffee and fresh air. With nothing better to do, Chantelle hopped into a shower, put in her hearing aids, and made her way out, meeting her neighbor at the court house not long after.

"I know, but I'm just worried that I won't be able to find any legitimate prospects," she sighed, running her hands through her still-drying black hair, "All the studio offers I've looked at aren't right, I'm not taking anything ridiculously priced, but I don't want to sell myself short and take a place where I can hardly work.

"What are you even looking for?" Nikki asked, waiting for Chantelle to open the door for her, as the Starbucks they were at didn't have an accessibility button.

"Well," the woman began, letting her friend wheel herself inside before stepping in as well, letting the door close behind her, only for it to be stopped by a man stepping in, wearing a large coat and hat; slightly strange in the summer, but not too out of the ordinary.

"I need something affordable that's about the size of a regular bed room with preferably higher ceilings and ventilation. I'm fine just renting out a room in a larger place, but I just...I would like someplace to work that makes me feel like I can work. Considering how long it's been, I reserve the right to be more picky, but Craigslist isn't going to give me many options once I start searching."

"And there isn't a single place like that?" Nikki asked, frowning up at the woman as she craned her neck to try and see the menu from her vantage point.

Chantelle took a picture of a menu and handed the woman her phone, shaking her head, "There's this one place, but I would have to commute two hours every day by train, not including all the traffic, so it's just not feasible."

Nikki hummed, handing her back her phone, giving her a sad smile. "If only there was a perfectly sized studio space that could be rented out to you within a few minutes walk of Nolita."

Chantelle sighed wistfully, laughing along with the woman, continuing to move up into the line, shifting as the man with the coat and hat seemed to move closer to them. "If only. But life doesn't work that way. But if it did, I'd take that place right away."

"Even if someone was living there?" Nikki asked, "You know, if they're just renting out a room. Would it block your creative flow?"

Chantelle shrugged, not bothering to even think over the question. "At this point, I just need to get started. My creative flow has been blocked for years, and I still need to get re-used to all the materials and—" she gasped, covering her mouth with her hands, "What mediums am I going to use?"

"Okay, you need to breathe," Nikki sighed, tapping her leg as she made her way to the front of the line, "Just forget about it for now and order yourself a Venti."

Chantelle sighed as she made her way to the second register, ordering her coffee as she rubbed at the back of her neck, feeling eyes boring into her skin. Glancing to the side, she caught sight of the man in the coat and hat simply standing there, but she knew he was looking. Shivering, she made her way to where Nikki was waiting towards the side.

As the two waited for their orders, Chantelle continued to talk about what she wanted in a studio space, which wasn't anything too drastic. She was so focused on her conversation that she didn't realize the man in the coat had left without ordering, brushing up against her arm as he left.

She did notice, however, the cold chill that ran through her entire body when his bare arm touched her own.

º º º

When she returned home, Chantelle avoided looking at the listings, procrastinating by going online, reading her DM's and watching episodes of shows she had fallen behind on, refusing to so much as look at her sketchbook or drawing tablets; if she was going to avoid her responsibilities, she was going to do it right.

She sighed as she exited the episode for the fifth time, giving up trying to get the subtitles to match the spoken words, as there was a two frame lag and she was not about to exert that much energy to understand.

Huffing, she made her way over to her desk, turning on her computer, frowning when it completely rebooted as she was sure she had only turned off the monitor, not the whole computer, but it wasn't anything to be too worried about.

Opening her search browser, she went back onto Craigslist, adjusting filters and typing in search words into the rather outdated system. She bit her lip as she hovered the mouse over the search button, too afraid to look at what results she would get.

"Please, please, please, please," she whispered, crossing her fingers and closing her eyes, reaching out and pressing the enter key on her keyboard, squealing as she whirled around in her seat, her back to the computer.

Waiting for a full minute, she took a deep breath, slowly turning around her seat, her eyes darting up to the number of search results. She let out a slow sigh at the large amount, before realizing that she was able to narrow down her options further in terms of proximity.

Taking a deep breath, she thought for a moment; it wouldn't hurt to see if there was anything within incredibly close walking distance. Searching for results within a mile radius, she held her breath, pressing the button and watching the screen turn to white before reloading, displaying one result.

Surprised to receive a result at all, she opened the listing, raising her eyebrows. The listing was well organized, describing a seven hundred and fifty square foot room in a townhouse in Greenwich Village, explaining that the lister was tighter on money and was unable to part from the mansion, offering to give a larger space if necessary, offering to rent it out for an estimate of sixteen-hundred dollars.

"This is fake," she mumbled to herself, copying the address and typing it into the search bar, captivated by the prospect.

177A Bleecker Street

Her eyes widened as she took in the Google Maps satellite image of what might as well have been considered a mansion, towering and old with large windows and ornate carvings. It was real, but she couldn't believe someone was renting out space there.

She was about to exit out of the window when she was overtaken with a desperation, a need to press the button, overcome by pure instinct, fingers dancing over the keys as she typed out a quick email to the person who put up the listing, unable to gain control back over her hands and mind until it was sent and out into the world.

She blinked, standing up quickly as she rubbed her eyes, walking around her room for a moment, shuddering as she felt a cool breeze in her room, despite no windows being open.

She immediately assumed a ghost and grabbed the remote to turn on the TV, opening a window and blinking against the dimming light that shown through, turning back to her computer when she heard a faint ping.

Raising her eyebrow, she was surprised to find a response from the man who had set up the listing; that was fast. Opening the response, she expected to find something mocking or something that would raise red flags as to how much of a hoax the offer was; what she found instead was something better.

Dear Ms. Sethi,

Thank you for replying to my listing, I've been rather desperate for money at the moment, I had lost my previous job some time ago due to an accident, so I appreciate your interest. I chose not to attach pictures on the listing as there are valuables within the room that I would rather not be shown to the general public, just in the interest of keeping thieves at bay, but I have attached them here. If you would like, you can come tomorrow and take a look yourself, as I have many other rooms you can use if it isn't to your liking, and there we can also discuss pricing, as I am more than happy to accommodate if necessary. I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,
Stephen Strange

Chantelle bit her lip, rereading the email a few more times before tapping her fingers, grabbing her phone and forwarding the email to Amanda with a flurry of question marks; this was almost too good to be true, but a part of her genuinely believed it to be real.

She tapped her fingers against her mouth for a few moments. She sighed, shaking her head as she grabbed her mouse, making her way up to the exit button, planning on going back to the original search window and looking at other prospects.

Blinking again, after seemingly having zoned out, she found herself staring at the email she had just sent in response.

º º º

Chantelle tried to steady her breathing as she made her way to Bleeker Street, a mere ten minutes away from her apartment in Nolita, a hand on her purse and another in her pocket, holding the pepper spray she carried with her at all times, worrying on her bottom lip, her heart pounding.

She had agreed to go and visit the room the next day, setting up a time and date with Stephen. He seemed nice enough, very friendly and sociable, and she could only hope he was genuine. The photos he had sent her of the space had seemed legitimate, not to mention stunning; she truly hoped this wasn't a hoax.

Coming to stand in front of the building—it was the same as on the Internet—she raised a hand and knocked on the door. When nothing happened for two minutes, she knocked again, more forceful, a few times for good measure.

A few moments later, the door opened to reveal a man with a dark head of hair and a beard, looking down at her with a confused and cold expression, his eyebrows raised.

"Are you selling anything?" he asked lowly, and she shook her head, offering him a small smile, unsure of how to start.

"May I come in?" she asked softly, giving him the smile she used whenever she needed to seem small and delicate in order to get what she wanted.

"Why?" he asked, not budging, and she was starting to question the legitimacy of the emails she had traded with the man she supposed was standing in front of her.

"Are you Stephen Strange?" she asked, instead, sighing as she tugged down the hood of her green jacket to look at him better, running a hand through her hair, furrowing her brow when she watched him follow the movement of her fingers.

"Yes," he replied, seeming more interested, "Do I know you?"

"We traded emails last night," she explained, standing firm, "I answered your listing on Craigslist?"

He nearly scoffed, shaking his head as he glanced away for a moment. "I didn't put any ad on Craigslist. What were you expecting to get?" His question held an air of judgement and she was starting to contemplate simply leaving.

"A room," she explained, and when he started to back away, she rushed to add, "Wait! You offered a seven hundred and fifty square foot room for rent for about sixteen hundred and you said that we could work on the price and the area because you got into an accident that lost you your profession and you're in desperate need of money."

He stared at her for a moment, nothing left in his eyes but cold suspicion, his words cutting like a knife as he demanded, "Who are you?"

"Chantelle Sethi," she replied, standing her ground and raising her chin, still standing on the doorstep.

"Alright, Chantelle Sethi," he said evenly, "It seems someone played a cruel joke on both of us. If what you're saying is true, I'm afraid I have to tell you that there isn't an ad listing for a room here and whomever you've been in contact with is a cruel bastard who has done too much reading into me."

"Wait," she said quickly, pulling out her phone, "You sent me pictures of the room, and I reverse image searched, they can't be found anywhere else."

Raising an eyebrow, he watched as she pulled up the screenshots on her photo app, sliding through all five of them, handing over the phone. She watched as he stuck out a hand, eyes focused on the scars littering his hands.

The scars were faint, but clearly noticeable, traveling down his fingers and starting at the backs of his hands, painful looking lines that seemed to be over the bones. Whatever caused them, she didn't know, but it was clear they were painful, and she could see his hands shaking as he carefully looked through the photos, the crease between his eyebrows becoming more pronounced with every slow swipe.

"What the hell," he sighed, handing the phone back, raising a hand to his eyes before lowering it, "Who are you?"

She startled back at the force of his question, as if he was threatening her, and she reached a hand down towards the pepper spray in her jacket pocket. "My name is Chantelle Sethi. I'm an artist and I was looking for a studio because I've just agreed to go back into gallery work. I haven't been able to find a single studio that I can actually afford and is the right size, and the room you've offered is perfect, and I'm willing to pay three times the amount."

"If you're willing to pay three times the amount, why don't you just go to a studio that is actually available?" he suggested, his words sharp like thorns, piercing into her harder than his steely gaze was.

"I don't know why I said that," she admitted, "I just...the room looks perfect—It is perfect. And my apartment is less than ten minutes away and—"

She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath; her father always taught her not to rush, that she had enough time to gather her wits and would often do better as a result. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him.

"The email said you had lost your profession due to an accident and you're short on money. Is that true?" she asked, her voice softer than intended, but it seemed to have the right effect.

His eyes hardened, but he didn't completely close off from her, replying with a gruff, "I'm Stephen Strange. I was a renowned neurosurgeon, but I was in a car crash. I'm sure you heard it on the news."

"Hate to say it, but there are more important things on the news," she found herself saying, clapping a hand over her mouth instantly; she never would have said that. "I am so, so sorry I have no idea what came over me, I—"

"It's fine," he said, taking her in suspiciously, "It seems everyone today has just been speaking their minds. Besides, I've been told worse. Please leave."

"Wait," she begged, holding out her hands to stop him, "Please. Just—Do you have that room available?"

"It's available for my use," he replied smoothly, and she forced herself to remain calm, wanting nothing more than to run her hand through her hair and scream, her chest tightening as the stress overtook her.

"Please, I need to find a place, and I've run out of options. Honestly."

Truthfully, she had looked at all the others once she and Stephen had finished corresponding, and all the ones she saw were just as she expected; fake, overpriced, or not the right size. This was her saving grace before she had to settle, and the last thing she needed was a problem that would hinder her finishing the pieces even further.

Stephen looked down at her, as if thinking, and she looked back up at him pleadingly. They stood there for nearly ten minutes and she was starting to realize what her father meant when she explained that people tended to offer more and more when the other was silent for too long during a business deal; but she couldn't very well offer any more than three times what the initial ad had offered.

"Can I see the ad?" he asked, completely calm, and she fished out her phone, typing rapidly.

No results came up.

She cursed, eyes wide, and she continued to search, shaking her head as every version she tried drew up more and more blanks, going so far as searching for the name of the man who offered it, only to find nothing.

"Maybe you-maybe you took it down when I—" she tried, but he shook his head, silencing her immediately.

"I didn't write the ad," he said, "I didn't correspond with you at all. But the pictures are real. Are you willing to pay three times the amount? Per month?"

She nodded fiercely, her jaw set. "Yes."

He took a deep breath and sighed. "Come back tomorrow. We'll discuss where you can and can't go. I'd also like a list of materials you'll be using for your art."

She nearly collapsed with relief, falling forward, only for him to catch her, more with his body than his hands, righting her carefully, pulling back instantly, clearly uncomfortable with the contact. She apologized breathlessly, thanking him as she tried to remember how to breathe in the first place.

"Here's my contact," she said quickly, pulling out her wallet and handing him her card, as she realized he didn't have a means of contacting her, since the email she believed to be him was fake; she would focus on that later.

He took it carefully, raising an eyebrow as he turned it over before placing it in the pocket of his blazer. "Just come by at five."

She nodded, clearing her throat at his apathy to the whole situation, beginning to back away, still thanking him and smiling. "Have a good day, Mr. Strange."

He nodded back and she turned on her heel, walking away, figuring that she had overstayed her welcome more than it was already unwelcome in the first place; the fact that he had even let her stay on his front door for so long had her reeling.

Just as she was about to turn, he called out, "Ms. Sethi."

She turned, humming. "Yes?"

He didn't quite smile at her, but he didn't quite frown. "Congratulations on going back to gallery work. I'm a big fan."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

( 07.06.18 )

So they met! I really hope I wrote Stephen alright, we didn't get to see much of his real character as he was being a general polite person as you do when you meet random strangers, but you'll quickly see his character when the two begin to interact more.

What did we think of this, was it too rushed, I think it went alright, but...I don't know, I hope it was good. Feedback would be appreciated, ya'll.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!