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The sharp click of heels on marble echoed in the cavernous atrium, late night rhythmic steps teamed with the droning rollers of pulled luggage.  Her movement felt synchronic, choreographed, and insofar as it announced her presence, disconcerting.

An upward glance caught the united focus of the several who loitered, their opinion declared by smiles worn or absent.  Straightaway to the lifts, she chose passage to the eleventh floor.  Nondescript Room 1152, furnished square for a fortnight stay awaited, preferred space to the corrupting proffered and rejected penthouse.  Lisa disliked ostentatiousness and uncaring excess, and she refused to wallow in hypocrisy.  She cared not about the labels of politics, only those anonymous, without voice.

Millions exchanged their money for her creative offerings; she donated ninety percent of her share to those in need.  She wrote for and to them, the hurting and the struggling, those at the base of the economic pyramid who lost their employ to the braggadocio dibsmanship of aggregating top skimmers.

From behind the tabloid paper a covertly compensated furtive figure stirred, satisfied enough time elapsed.  A hand-held yellow post-it note listed four identifying digits, declarative map to his targeted destination.

Lisa needed to bathe; the residual stench of the neighboured, non-showered smoker clung to her being from six hours of cross-ocean flight.  Sparkling bubbles of foaming bath mushroomed in the tiled spa while she disrobed, Lisa anticipating an extended soak paired with a new read.

A trio of raps signalled an unexpected visitor at the door.  Despite her bare form, curiosity pulled an eye to the peephole.  Four retorts, the rapid and non-silenced thunder of piercing bullets, drilled through tranquillity and wood.  Four holes, four on mark strikes, instant death.

Lisa claimed the aggregators disliked the noisy stirrings on the streets, her point proven in the end.