People say the worst monsters blend in. I think they just don't look hard enough.

The office smells like burnt coffee and cheap paper. Same beige walls. Same tired faces. I type. I smile. I nod in all the right places. No one notices how carefully I listen, how I catalog every little twitch, every lie disguised as small talk.

Today, the detective walks in. Just a routine consult, they said. Nothing to do with me.

Yet.

They introduce themselves. Firm handshake. Steady eyes. I return both, pleasant, harmless.

But inside?

I’m already wondering how they bleed.