“Before I delve into the heart of my work, I want to share astory. A story that began thousands of miles from here, in the sun-drenched savannas of East Africa. It’s where I spent much of my childhood, alongside my parents, who were humanitarians. They devoted their lives to healing the fractures of a world so often divided by conflict and inequality.”
My voice softens, laced with emotion. “They were more than my parents. They were my compass, my moral anchor. My mother, a physician, established clinics in villages that hadn’t seen a doctor in years. My father, an educator, believed that knowledge was the most powerful tool for change. Together, they were a force of nature, inspiring everyone around them. Including me.”
A smile touches my lips, but it’s tinged with bittersweetness. “Their work wasn’t easy, and neither was their decision to uproot our lives and move to Africa when I was a toddler. They did so to advocate for change on a larger scale, to ensure that their work could create ripples far beyond what they could accomplish alone.”
I pause, letting the weight of my next words settle. “But their journey was cut short. After returning to the States, my parents were killed in an act of senseless violence. A tragic event that left more questions than answers. For years, I struggled to understand the kind of mind capable of such cruelty. And that struggle became my purpose.”
The room is utterly still now, and everyone is watching me with rapt attention. It’s a good sign, but only adds to my nervousness. I clear my throat and continue.
“This is why I chose to study criminal psychology. I needed to understand what drives people to the darkest corners of human behavior. Not just to solve crimes, but to prevent them. To find meaning in the chaos. And, perhaps most importantly, to honormy parents’ legacy by seeking justice in a world that often feels unjust.”
I glance at the slideshow behind me, where an image of my parents appears. It’s a candid shot of them laughing together with my father’s arm draped over my mother’s shoulders, and the African sun setting behind them. The photo shifts to an image of me as a graduate student, standing proudly beside the university sign.
“This university gave me the tools to take that purpose and transform it into action. It gave me the mentors, the resources, and the opportunities to explore the complexities of the human mind. It gave me the courage to face the hardest truths and the knowledge to pursue answers where none seemed possible.”
I shift my tone from personal to inspirational. “Today, I stand before you not just as a scholar, but as proof of what this institution can achieve. The research I conduct, the cases I work on, and the lives I’ve touched all began here, with the generosity of people like you. Your support fuels the dreams of students who, like me, aspire to make a difference in a world desperately in need of it.
“Imagine what we could accomplish together. Imagine the lives we could change, the futures we could shape, the light we could bring to those darkest corners. This isn’t just an investment in education. It’s an investment in justice, in understanding, and in hope. My parents believed that one person could change the world. I believe that too. But together, we can do so much more.”
I let the current photo of my parents linger on the screen behind me, their smiles illuminated in the soft glow of the stage lights. “They believed in the power of connection, in the idea that understanding others—no matter how different—could bridge divides and heal wounds. It’s a belief I carry with me in all my work. But not everyone values connection. Not everyone is capable of it.”
With the press of a button, the slide transitions to a picture of Ghost. On the giant screen, his mugshot feels larger than life. Especially because of that infuriatingly smug expression I’ve come to both love and hate.
His face is a mask of defiance, his eyes cold yet piercing, as though he’s challenging anyone who dares to try and label him. It’s a picture I’ve analyzed countless times, but now, standing here, it feels different.
The room is silent, the audience captivated, but I can’t focus on their reactions. My pulse quickens as my gaze locks on his image. The memory of last night floods my mind, making my skin burn with the phantom sensation of his hands on me.
“Psychopathy is a condition defined by control, not connection.” My voice is steady despite the tendrils of lust coursing through me. Branding me.
A flicker of movement snatches my attention. My gaze shifts toward it, landing on a tall figure who’s leaning casually against the back wall. The man has his arms crossed, and his face is partially obscured by shadows. It’s the posture, the body language that’s familiar. But when his eyes meet mine, sharp and unmistakable, my breath catches in my throat.
For a moment, I hesitate, my mind scrambling to reconcile what I’m seeing. His hair, normally stark white, is now jet black, styled in a way that makes him look almost ordinary. The scar that twists down his cheek is gone, replaced by flawless skin, likely the work of expertly applied prosthetics and makeup. His tailored suit blends seamlessly with the polished crowd inside, but it’s the smirk tugging at his lips that shatters the illusion.
Ghost.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the recognition flickering across my face. But his gaze holds mine, unflinching, and I know this isn’t a hallucination. He’s here, in plain sight, daring me to falter.
Or to continue…
I grip the edges of the podium, my fingers digging into the wood as I force myself to speak. “Psychopaths are often misunderstood. Their actions are calculated, their emotions shallow, and their ability to manipulate unparalleled.”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a glint in his eyes that I recognize too well. A challenge. He’s testing me, pushing me to maintain my composure while he stands there, a living contradiction to everything I’m saying.
“However,” I continue, my gaze flickering briefly to my notes before returning to the audience, “what sets them apart is their ability to adapt. They learn to mimic human connection, to exploit vulnerabilities in ways that make them appear normal.”
The words hang in the air, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches with the faintest hint of amusement. My pulse quickens, but I press on, refusing to let him rattle me.
“They thrive in environments where control is paramount. They seek power, not always through brute force, but through subtlety. Through precision.”
Ghost shifts slightly, his posture unchanged but his gaze burning into me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s not just listening. He’s dissecting every word and every nuance, as if this speech is for him alone. And in a way, it is.
He’s here for a reason, and I can’t decide if it’s to intimidate me, to test me, or to remind me of the connection I’ve tried so hard to bury. Maybe it’s all three.
“Dr. Andrews, a question.”
All eyes turn toward the source. My stomach plummets, and I grip the podium more tightly. He remains in the shadows at the back of the room, his presence commanding, his gaze locked on me.
“Do you really believe psychopaths are incapable of connection?” Ghost’s voice carries easily, calm but direct. Although it sounds like a casual inquiry, it’s anything but.
