Belladonna

0.8 ] Promising Position

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"AN...ALLIANCE?" I repeat the phrase this absolute stranger used after he threw a bag over my head and took me to these fancy headquarters.

"Exactly, that's what I just said." My Kidnapper - Director Hayes - tells me.

"Why would you want to make an alliance with me? I don't know you, I haven't done anything to know you. I also think the kidnapping thing was a little extreme." I interrogate, still a little ruffled.

Al I was doing was leaving my shitty apartment when I got bagged, brought here, and then bombarded by some weird girl who bursted through the doors a few minutes ago already knowing my name.

What. The. Fuck.

"We know you killed Callum Dickens." Director Hayes tells me.

I enter innocent mode immediately upon hearing those words. 

So that's what this is about? The insurance investigators - the kidnapping - its all to do with some douchebag I killed in an alleyway? Just how important was he?

"You can't prove that." I say coldly, keeping a calm manner.

Director Hayes leans back in his chair at that response, "You're right. We can't. You got super lucky."

I almost want to stand up and declare it was not luck at all but my perfect logical thinking - however I'm not stupid enough to fall into interrogation traps.

Good cop, bad cop, knows more than they're letting on, knows less than they're letting on - and in this case - diminishing my work in order to fish me out. Only the narcissists fall for that one.

"It's alright though," Director Hayes speaks up as he stands from his desk, "We don't want you here to punish you for killing Callum. In fact, we're quite grateful." He rounds the corner of his desk to be met closer with me.

"...huh?"

"He's been quite the nuisance. For years we've been trying to kill him, but he was just too rich and had too much money to protect himself with. Then you, some random nineteen year old - happy birthday by the way - comes waltzing in, killing him after a night of knowing him. It's fascinating. Confusing . Tell me, how did you do it?" He asks.

I'm confused to see a glimmer of impressment in his eyes. It almost makes me want to own up and brag.

But I'm no narcissist.

"Again," I sit, "Didn't do it."

He pauses then, hums. Like he's disappointed. He walks back around his desk and sits at his chair, tapping his fingers on his table in thought.

"Fine," He groans, "I didn't want to have to do this, but you've left me with no choice. I'm really going to get my arse scolded for this one." He says annoyed, clicking a few buttons on the phone on his desk, muttering a few nothings into it's receiver, and then putting it back down.

"You may wait outside. Try anything, we have guards everywhere." He uses a broad gesture with his hand to basically kick me out.

I don't know what to say. To think, to do, to plan.

So I stand up and admit inner defeat temporarily. I follow his instructions and leave to the waiting room, one quite grand and English.

There are dark browny-red leather couches, Victorian styled walls, a modern fish tank that does not fit the aesthetic of the rest of the room - and paintings.

Old, expensive, looking paintings.

I observe them with interest, trying to get the tale of each one.

Then I see the fucking Mona Lisa.

Which - I'm pretty sure - has to be a fake. But then again, why would some rich dude buy a fake one and display it - would that not embarrass him? I'm assuming that's rich people problems.

What controls my mind the most though - is what the fuck is going on?

Not a sketchy guy in a tux, not an oddly looking realistic Mona Lisa, not the name Callum Dickens appearing over and over - but the fact that I'm being offered...a position.

Which honestly? If I'm getting a position to continue doing the things I did to Callum? I'd gladly accept.

Ever since I was young I've always felt...no known something was wrong with how I thought. Things I noticed first that I probably shouldn't have even noticed at all - things that a human with functioning empathy and sympathy don't have.

Here, perhaps, I'd be a little more normal.

And even if I'm not - who cares - I'd still have an outlet.

••●••

Margeux every time someone interrogates her:

- Juana.