You slowly push the door open, trying to keep your posture steady despite the uneasy twist in your gut.

The office is… immaculate. Too immaculate. Tastefully decorated with soft lighting, gleaming furniture, and an absurdly perfect arrangement of fresh flowers on the desk.

It smells like citrus and something you can’t quite place—like control disguised as charm.

And there he is.

Pariston Hill, seated behind a wide, polished desk with that signature smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

His fingers are steepled beneath his chin, elbows resting neatly on the desk, and he watches you with a look that makes you feel like you’re already being dissected.

“Ahh,” he says, as if he’s been expecting you all his life. “You’re the applicant, aren’t you?”

He leans back in his chair, smile widening. “Please, sit. Don’t be shy.” His tone is syrupy sweet, but you can feel the teeth behind it.

You sit, trying to ignore how the chair creaks just slightly under your weight—loud enough in the silence to make your shoulders tense.

Pariston laces his fingers together now, head tilting. “So… tell me,” he says smoothly, “why do you want this job?”

His smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

It’s not just an interview. It’s a game. And he’s already playing.