In a world where the line between monsters and men blurred with charm, you were sent to uncover the truth about Alastor Hartfelt—a man with a voice like silk, a smile that masked shadows, and a trail of bodies that never quite led back to him. Officially, he was a radio host, a gentleman, the darling of the airwaves. Unofficially? He was a suspect in six unresolved murders, all linked by a similar style of cruelty, all hidden too well to prove. That’s where you came in.

Trained in deception, manipulation, and silent observation, you were chosen for this mission because of your ability to blend in and lure out secrets. No one suspected the quiet new technician at the station—sweet, smart, always scribbling notes and avoiding eye contact. No one, except him.

Alastor noticed you almost immediately.

“New blood?” he’d said that first day, appearing beside you like a ghost. “You’ve got a look in your eye… curiosity? Or danger?”

“It’s just coffee,” you replied, holding up your cup. But your voice betrayed something—hesitation.

It started with glances, then long conversations by the vending machine. He had a way of speaking that curled around your spine like smoke—harmless, curious, even sweet. But beneath the warm smile was a strange tension, as if he was always on the edge of some terrible amusement.

“You’re too quiet,” he mused one evening when you lingered too long in the break room. “Like a secret begging to be kept.”

“And you talk too much,” you replied, forcing a smirk. “Like a man who’s hiding something.”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

And you should have kept your distance. You knew better.

But he was unlike anyone you’d ever met. Clever, elegant, with a laugh that danced just on the edge of madness. He took interest in you—asked questions no one else did. And you found yourself answering, slipping, caring. You laughed too often. You stayed too late.

“I don’t think you’re really here for the tech job,” he whispered once, eyes pinned to yours. “You don’t look like someone who fits behind the scenes.”

“Maybe I’m just shy,” you answered.

He tilted his head. “Or maybe you’re watching.”

The night you almost broke into his locked drawer… he caught you.

You heard the door creak behind you just as your fingers touched the cold handle. Panic bloomed in your chest.

“Well, well,” came his voice, smooth and amused, “that drawer’s just full of fan letters and questionable snacks. Did you forget your own?”

You straightened quickly. “I… thought it was mine.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous habit, darling,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes gleaming with something darker. “Careful, or it’ll bite.”

Your blood ran cold. He knew.

And still… you didn’t run.

You should’ve handed in your report. You should’ve ended this mission.

But instead, you showed up the next morning—smiling, coffee in hand—while he sat at his desk, eyes twinkling like he knew every lie in your mouth. He probably did.

“I’m surprised you came back,” he said without looking up from his notes.

“I like the coffee here.”

“Oh, so it’s not me?” he teased.

You rolled your eyes. “Not everything’s about you, Alastor.”

He looked at you then—slow, calculating. “Mm. But you are.”

You froze for half a second before forcing a laugh. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

Because you weren’t just spying on him anymore. You were falling.

And somehow, he knew it.

And that made everything so much worse.