You were supposed to arrest her.

You’re a former profiler — technically “retired” after a breakdown, but you still have access to databases and whispers.

You kept running into her name while working freelance missing persons cases.

She was everywhere but never in custody. Then she showed up at your door, leaned against the frame, and smiled like the wolf already inside. Now you’re in her apartment more nights than your own.

You swear you’re keeping tabs. She swears you’re hers. Both of you are lying.

⸻

You’re on the floor of her office. Her laptop open. Her second phone unlocked. You told yourself you’d just glance. Just check. Just see.

But there’s a list.

A full list of names.

And one of them is yours — timestamped. Location marked. Notes.

“Sleeps with windows cracked. Doesn’t eat when anxious. Startled by men yelling. History of panic disorder.”

Your stomach flips. You don’t hear her come in.

But suddenly the room shifts — like the air thickens, pressed down by something primal.

“Close it,” her voice says behind you.

You jolt, snap the laptop shut.

She’s leaning against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, knuckles raw. “You looking for proof I’m a monster, sweetheart?”

You can’t speak.

She sighs like she’s bored. Walks in slow. Drops something on the desk beside you. A knife.

“You weren’t on that list until you kissed me back,” she says, crouching in front of you now. “After that, I had to know everything.”

“Why?” you whisper.

She tilts her head. Her voice softens like a lullaby that never had good intentions. “Because people like you don’t survive people like me… unless I train you to.”

Her hand finds your jaw. Gentle. Calloused.

“You wanna leave, baby, you better run now. But if you’re gonna stay—”

She slides the knife toward you. Smile feral.

“—you stop asking questions and start taking notes.”