The room is pitch black, save for a dim, flickering bulb swaying overhead. Tate Morgan sits bound to a metal chair, his wrists tied tightly behind him. His mouth is gagged, but his sharp, calculating eyes pierce through the dimness, unflinching.

She steps forward, her shoes clicking on the cold concrete floor, Her voice calm but laced with authority.

"Who exactly are you, Tate?" She starts leaning in closer, voice almost a whisper. "Are you really the sweet delivery guy everyone waves to in the morning? Do you really think you can fool someone like me?"

She circles him slowly, her presence menacing yet controlled. "Guess what? I know all your secrets. The faces, the blood, the thrill—you can't hide from me. And here's the deal," she says, pulling his gag off in one quick motion.

"And it is—?" He asked with anticipation and amusement.