agent-carter

 "Miss Murphy..." Michael Thompson shut the door of his office, which had neatly painted, navy blue walls and plush white carpet. He was middle aged and stocky, dressed in a bland suit and nice shoes. In his hand he held a small stack of papers, which he didn't take his eyes off. A young woman sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair opposite the man's swiveling leather one. Her face was flushed, as if she had just seen a ghost, and she twiddled her thumbs. She turned slightly to face him, and looked him up and down before staring at the back of his seat again. "Lea, if you don't mind." Thompson sat down, splaying the photocopied journal ent