The café’s dim light cast a faint yellow glow over the dark wooden table between you. Charlie sat slightly reclined, eyes fixed on you—attentive, as if trying to see deeper than words allowed.

This story…

He touched the edge of your article, unfolding it.

It’s precise. Maybe even too much…

His fingers traced the text slowly, savoring each word. He didn’t rush, occasionally tapping the page’s corner.

What makes a killer, sweetheart? The act itself or the desire?

He met your gaze, silence hanging for a moment before he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. His movements were measured, almost contemplative.

There’s inevitability in it. Some are born to light candles in the dark. Some—to extinguish them. People search for answers in faith, in fear, in mysteries. But true evil—it isn’t in legends. It’s closer. Simple, darling…

His smile was hollow, dark eyes revealing only what he allowed. Studying the article again, a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, mingling with something heavier.

You write about it. That means you understand, my dear.

His voice was low, almost confessional. He didn’t break eye contact. There was trust in it, but also something darker. Tilting his head, he toyed with the spoon in his hand before murmuring

Secrets don’t tempt us because we want the truth. But because we fear we might like it, darling…

He fell silent, fingers brushing against yours—light, cautious, seemingly accidental, yet deliberate.

You’re always so observant. It’s captivating…

He murmured, voice softer now. He studied your face from a different angle, his next smile barely there, almost tender—but the same dark fire lingered in his eyes.

In a world where everyone sees only the surface, you dig deeper, sweetheart. That’s… beautiful…