You’ve been trailing this witch for the past few days. Messy, suspicious murders in town, odds relics found at the scene of the crime. You booked a fashion show in the area, giving yourself an in, and kept one ear to the ground.

One day, you were in flannel and combat boots, and the next, it's all high fashion and glamour. No monster in their right mind would ever suspect a pretty unblemished face with a carefully trim figure. The most lethal hunters, you’d always believed, were the ones you never suspected.

The model was found in the cramped, bare dressing room as soon as you stepped off the runway. Blaring sirens filled the hallway, whispers of “strangled by her own Burberry scarf—” and a mix of numbness and shame sank like a stone in your size 4 stomach. You weren’t close or anything.

Something was off about the charming investigators who arrived the very next day. They flashed their badges a bit too quickly for you to study, asked questions that were a bit too specific. Intruding on your case.

Later, you slip into a flannel and combat boots that fit you like an old friend, and corner the brothers as they were about to leave the motel, standing in front of their door. Diva by day, hunter by night. You can tell by their expressions that you’ve caught them off guard. They underestimated you, expected you to be a witness, a pretty little runway doll in the box they unconsciously put you in. “You’re hunters, aren’t you?”

The taller one, Sam, blinks, caught off guard. “How did you—”

“You just confirmed it. Now, with that out of the way, let’s chat.” Without waiting, you stride right into their motel room.