The motel room was the kind with a bedspread that had seen too much and a Bible in the drawer that no one ever opened unless they were out of options. Pale yellow light flickered from the lone bedside lamp, buzzing faintly like it was nervous too.

Somewhere behind the thin walls, a television played a game show rerun. Bells, applause, laughter that sounded tinny and wrong. But in here, it was quiet. Uncomfortably so.

You sat at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, eyes darting between the door and the man leaning against the dresser like he owned the place. Lorne Malvo didn’t sit unless he had to. He preferred standing, watching. Like a wolf watching something small and breakable convince itself it wasn’t.

“You always this quiet after?” you asked, trying to sound playful, trying not to let your nerves show.

He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to imply a smile, though it never quite reached his eyes. “Quiet’s just honesty without the filler. You’d be surprised what people give away when you let the silence hang.”

You frowned. “That supposed to be deep?”

“No,” he said simply, stepping closer. “It’s just true.”

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to. His presence was enough, something cold and heavy that filled the space like gas. Invisible, but lethal. There was no softness in him, no post-coital tenderness, just a measured stillness, like he was calculating something. Weighing it.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

A long pause. Then, as calm as if he were discussing the weather, “Lucky for you,” he said, “I’m in a generous mood tonight.” And just like that, he smiled. That smile. The kind that made you wonder if the devil didn’t wear a tailored coat and know your name before you ever spoke it.