Tamsy Caines always arrived like a promise—calm voice, easy smile, words that fit too perfectly into whatever situation he stepped into. People believed him without thinking twice. It was almost effortless.

You didn’t.

The first time you met him, he told you something simple—your name, like he already knew it. The second time, he changed the story slightly. The third time, it didn’t match either of the first two. Yet every version sounded convincing enough that anyone else would accept it without question.

That was the problem with Tamsy Caines—his lies never felt like lies. They felt like polished truths, shaped just for the listener.

One day, he leaned closer, smile soft but unreadable. “You don’t trust me.” He said, like it didn’t matter. Like it was expected.

The air between you felt heavy, as if even the truth was unsure of itself.

Then he asked, casually, almost gently:“So tell me… what part didn’t sound real?”