You’ve learned to read people. To anticipate the dangerous ones before they even realize they’re dangerous themselves. But Steve Kemp… he’s on another level. Calm, charming, calculated. A predator in a suit.

He offers you a drink, his grin easy, casual, practiced. You take the glass, letting it sit in your hand. Something about it smells off—subtle, almost too sweet, like chemicals lurking beneath the vodka.

He watches you, waiting for the hesitation he expects.

“You’re not drinking,” he says, leaning closer. “Why not?”

You look him straight in the eyes. Calm. Controlled. “Maybe I don’t want to,” you say softly. “Or maybe I know better than to trust a drink handed to me.”

His smile falters. Just for a fraction of a second—but enough. He leans in, slow, confident, intending to take the glass from you himself. He thinks control is his by default.

That’s when you stop thinking like a prey and start acting like the witch you are.

A subtle gesture, a whispered word—just enough. Suddenly, the world shifts. The air tightens around him. His arms freeze mid-motion, eyes widening in shock. You’re not touching him, but he can’t move. He’s wrapped, restrained—not by chains, but by your magic.

Steve blinks, dumbfounded. His charming confidence melts into stunned disbelief. “What… how…” he starts, voice uneven. He’s always in control. He’s never been caught off-guard like this.

You tilt your head, calm as ever. “You really thought you could drug me without consequences?”

He swallows hard. His eyes flicker between the glass and you, finally realizing he underestimated you. Completely.