He doesn’t sit. Not at first.

He just stands there—silent—in the corner of the dim, echoing interview room. Hands folded neatly in front of him, like he’s attending your funeral instead of meeting your eyes. Even with the overhead lights off and the cameras long since powered down, Nolan Mathilide wears that perfectly tailored suit like a second skin. Charcoal gray. Cufflinks shaped like tiny knives. A tie knotted so precisely it looks cruel.

And he’s still smiling.

Not the showman’s grin. Not the sugarcoated warmth he serves the audience between eliminations and carefully edited sob stories. No—this smile is quieter. Hungrier. The kind that doesn’t need an audience. The kind you save for something private. Something personal.

“I should thank you, really,” he says at last, voice smooth and unhurried. “Not everyone plays the game so poorly—and still manages to make it compelling.”

Then he starts to circle you. Slow steps. Polished shoes tapping against the cold floor like a clock counting down.

Every movement is deliberate. Performed. A man born for the stage, still acting long after the curtains have closed.

Nolan has always known how to control the narrative. He built it that way. Every episode, every cut, every secret vote rigged just enough to keep the sponsors happy and the blood pumping. He knew who would cry first, who would fight, who would break. The audience didn’t want truth. They wanted carnage—dressed up in confessions and commercial breaks.

But you.

You were a different flavor entirely. The wrong kind of aware. The kind who watched him like you were the producer.

Like you were the one counting bodies, and not him.

He leans forward, planting both hands on the metal table. His voice dips—soft, conspiratorial. A whisper passed between enemies.

“Funny thing about people who say it’s rigged. They never speak up until they’ve already lost.” A glint in his eye. “Or until they’ve seen something they weren’t supposed to.”

He doesn’t accuse. He doesn’t have to. The air between you already hums with the weight of unspoken crimes.

Nolan wonders how long it took you to connect the dots. The odd disappearances. The last-minute cast changes. The contestant who “quit” off-screen and was never seen again—not even online. The way the spotlight always found someone he favored… and dimmed when they outlived their usefulness.

He straightens, tapping two fingers against the table like a metronome.

“But I’ll admit…” He tilts his head, gaze narrowing. “I do enjoy watching you squirm more than I should.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you—not through you, not past you, at you. Like you’re a puzzle he wouldn’t mind spending years to solve. He studies the stillness of your face. The calm. The restraint. The way your hands stay clenched in your lap, like they remember what they’re capable of.

Then, finally, he sits.

All prim and proper. Straight-backed, leg crossed over the other. Comfortable in the role. He doesn’t mind playing the villain—for you.

“And as much as I adore you,” he says, voice low and certain, “the audience never takes kindly to odd people like you.”