three times freed
Credit for some of the following dialogue goes to Benjamin Percy, writer of the comic Green Arrow Rebirth #1, & Qveen Herby, performer of the song Sleepwalker. 
Malcoma couldn't get that damned hiss click out of her head—
—or his words, but she managed to push both from the forefront as she hyperfocused on a slight scraping at the door
—down the short entryway
—dancing around the keyhole.
It suddenly paused. A beat passed, then the key turned until a soft click sounded from the lock mechanism. The door swung in freely before a hand caught it along the edge. The owner, a brunette man, sidestepped into the apartment. He pushed the door closed with one hand, reaching out to hang his messenger bag on a nearby coat rack with the other. "I almost didn't notice," he admitted, only looking at the madam once he had locked them in again.
Tension unraveled in her shoulders. She sat back on his sofa and stretched an arm over the back upholstery. Plush, just like his disloyal detective life. She replied with equal honesty, "I almost didn't remember." How, that was. Luckily, the bottom of her jacket pocket seemed to be magnetized leather: loose change and bobby pins were squatters that she couldn't kick out if she tried. She had tried, she was always trying, but today they had managed to pay a long overdue rent. "It's been a while since I've seen an old-school lock like that." Her top lip curled into an almost scowl as she recounted the observation. Keycard or biometric access were standard entrance features even for private housing on the underlevels. Reviving antiquated technology was in vouge up near and at the horizon. While Malcoma could appreciate the aesthetics, she couldn't get past the widening schism between Coruscant's socioeconomic populations—literally.
Over something as superficial as how you got into your apartment after a few hours of overtime.
"What are you doing here anyway?"
"I didn't know I needed Detective Inkari's permission to enter Skyline," Malcoma said, slipping in her loving, collective nickname for Galactic City's high rises. She knew for a fact that she wasn't that undesirable; she and her girls saw quite a few regulars representing the sky districts. "Darling, you rubbed the wrong..." she barely managed to amend her choice of words, "...lantern if you didn't actually want to see a genie."
She watched his adam's apple bob up and down his throat before asking, "Then you'll let me help you?"
"No." A more accurate answer would have been "Not as is," but dealing in absolutes always landed different. It got her what she wanted more often. Someone might even call her Sith for it if her cells weren't missing one foundational, sentient ingredient.
His brow knit and she resisted the urge to tell him to not tempt premature wrinkles. Instead, she kicked her feet off the ottoman, which she hadn't noticed had floated up there in the first place. "Aw, don't take it personal, darling. I like you, I do, it's just..." She stood and turned to him. "...that I talked to Kandra." Wandering idly into the open-plan kitchenette, she ran a finger over the cool surface of the island bar. Footsteps on hardwood followed after her. "She called me after your little visit with a lot to say about you."
"She's a sweet girl," he commented from the hallway. "You did real good by her. None of y'all deserve what the CSF is trying to do to you."
Malcoma had just slid her hand over the handle of the refrigerator when he made that assertion. She could almost feel the disgust pouring out of her face as she turned to him. "You have such a strange way of sharing that opinion," she alluded. His investigation, from what she gathered, had found one of Malcoma's thumbs in the black market slave trading pie. It had taken some major technical know-how, as she had gone to pains to cover her digital tracks, but they had found a name in a buried, years old transaction. It only took a cross check against known citizens to track down the residence of one Kandra Ctharcourt and likewise find her. The name was pretty uncommon, as it turned out, but in any case his little house call had forced Malcoma's hand:
She had moved Kandra down a few levels the very same day. An address change wouldn't slow them down too much, but any amount of time that Malcoma could save Kandra from the invasive eye of the CSF was well worth—
"I deleted the records. That I went there, that we ever found her, that you ever bought her. I didn't even write up her statement."
Malcoma blinked. She canted her head just so. In no way had she imagined that this man had actually gotten so enthralled with her idea of a greater purpose, or at least what little of that concept really existed in the underworld. "Listen to you." She turned back to the fridge and pulled one door open. "You call yourself a social justice warrior..." she mused to his chilling produce, "but look at this apartment. Look at this life."
"So?" He leaned back on the counter as she closed the fridge and looked over at him, spreading his hands over it. "What do you think?"
"To be honest, I think you're a bit of a hypocrite."
He folded his arms, face inquisitive.
She explained, "How can you fight the man...if you are the man?"
The look only deepened.
"Now, I do give credit where it's due. You're a cut above any other pig I know, darling. There's still much to be desired, but at least there's that."
It remained unchanged.
"You don't understand." In her extensive experience, men rarely did. Could she really blame him? "Let me help you." Malcoma stepped close and reached out to finger the tip of his business tie. "What gets you to sleep, or out the door, or off—I really don't care—is telling yourself that you'll be different. You'll look out for the poor, the addicts, the aliens, the victims, the, the, the..." With each 'the', she worked her grip towards his dress shirt collar. At the end of her list, she let go and smoothed the tie down with the heel of her palm. "Which is all well and good for a purpose, but you're letting a dozen small pictures obscure the big picture." Satisfied with her job, she glanced up. It wasn't hard to find his gaze; it was right on her. "Baby, you can't be a good apple if the whole market stall's molded."
Really, it was like the the whole damn market was molded. It wasn't just the CSF departments, it was most of the city.
Still, it seemed that the analogy held together enough to get the point across. He gave a small nod and reiterated in other words, "You're saying I need to get out."
In place of a smile, she rose her hands to cup his cheeks. "Exactly," she affirmed. "But, you're on your own, baby." Sighing under her breath, she suddenly stepped back, letting her hands softly drag off his skin. "If there's no sex involved, it's not my area of expertise, and even if there was I couldn't sleep my way out of this one." A shrug carried Malcoma back into the hallway. Saying so aloud wouldn't stop a girl from trying, just like fooling herself she could keep trinkets out of the bottom of her pockets, but at least she knew how to pick her battles. This one was his.
"Wait."
She stopped within a step of the front door.
When she turned around, he was standing in the hall. A shy smile stretched his lips. "Stay for dinner?"
Another sigh, more audible this time, left her lips. If she was going to work with this guy, she might as well start building up the employer-employee trust from the get-go. "If it's going to be those bantha steaks in the fridge."
It was.
"And we don't talk about solving Galactic City's problems anymore tonight."
They didn't, and he didn't ask her to stay longer for dessert either.