“Things started off a little weird between us,” I offer, trying to steer the mood somewhere safer. If I want to reset the dynamic, this might be the time. “First day on the job, and all of the?—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts in, the sharpness of her voice startling me. I swallow hard, my body tensing like a pulled chord. That earns me a wicked smirk from her as she reaches for a handful of fries and shoves them into her mouth, her brown eyes never leaving mine.
It still feels like a test. Like she’s assessing how much I can take—how long I’ll last under the pressure she applies without mercy.
“Why are you here?” she asks once she finishes chewing, her tone laced with both curiosity and mockery. She leans to theside, wiping her greasy fingers with a napkin before balling it up in her hands.
“Let me guess… Mommy and Daddy didn’t love you. You got dumped in some shitty orphanage, abused mentally and physically. One day, you snapped, killed someone by accident, and ran off. You survived the streets somehow. And now you’re here, chasing this job because the high you got from your first kill never really left you?”
The mere mention of my parents sends a sharp, icy pulse rattling through me. She studies me like a predator circling its prey, her eyes narrowed and sharp, dissecting every subtle flicker of emotion that passes across my face.
“Is that how it looks?” I ask, managing to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Do I really give off that impression?”
Estella leans back in her chair, her sneakers scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “Cliché,” she replies coolly. “But ninety-nine percent of people in this line of work have the same tragic backstory.”
“Itiskind of tragic,” I parry. “Don’t you feel it?”
She tilts her head, a faint half-smile curving her lips. “Every day, thousands of people are abused, mocked, and humiliated. If you let yourself feel for all of them, you’ll go insane. Probably end up blowing your brains out.”
I part my lips, a soundless gasp caught in my throat. Words refuse to form, and for once, I can’t argue. She isn’t entirely wrong. Harsh as it may sound, there’s a thread of raw truth tangled in her words.
“That’s not exactly my story,” I murmur, forcing the words past my lips. My gaze sharpens, cutting through the air between us. “You haven’t been told anything about me, have you?”
“That’s a stupid question. I was in prison, remember?”
I nod quickly. “Right. Just thought maybe?—”
“You can’t just assume things if you want to survive here,” she interrupts again. I bite my lower lip, holding back a surge of frustration. When I said she was insufferable, I meant every goddamn word.
“Rule number one,” she begins, eyes locked on mine. “Pay attention. You snooze, you lose—and if you lose, you die.”
She lifts a glass of Coke to her lips, taking a sip of the dark liquid before setting it back on the table. Her other hand rises almost absentmindedly, index finger pointed skyward as her brows draw together, lost in a swirl of thought. “Actually, scratch that. There are no rules. You dying might be the best-case scenario.”
Somehow, that makes me laugh. A dry, involuntary sound bursts from my chest as I lean forward and grab a few French fries. Food won’t fix the tension pulsing through me, but I need something to ground myself.
“So,” I begin, voice low, “do you want to hear my backstory or not?”
“Nice try.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I question.
“It means,” she begins, fingers threading through her messy, half-dried hair, tugging at stray strands as if each motion helps her gather her thoughts, “that you’re trying to use it as leverage. But it won’t work on me. I’m not going to chase you for some tragic confession.”
She leans in and snatches the fries straight from my hand. “Because I don’t care,” she states, popping them into her mouth one by one, chewing slowly, all the while holding my gaze.
My breath catches in my throat, stuttering like a broken engine. Heat races up my neck and spreads across my cheeks in a fiery flush I can’t stop. Her wicked little smile forms and stretches, and in that moment, I realize exactly why.
She craves this reaction. She’s savoring it, every flicker of my discomfort feeding her amusement.
“I killed my parents,” I blurt out. It’s a lie, but for her, it’s going to be the only truth she ever gets. “They were good people,” I add, my voice evening out, emotion crafted just right. “Kind. Caring.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” she mutters, her words dripping with disinterest. “Why’d you kill them, then?”
A bitter lump climbs up my throat, dense enough to choke me. My fingers twitch, desperate to curl into fists and slam into something solid—maybe the wall, maybe the table between us. That kind of release usually steadies me, a violent reset that drags me back from the edge.
But not this time. Cracking isn’t an option. Not in front of her. Not when every breath feels like another test I’m not allowed to fail. In Estella’s version of me—and in everyone else’s I’ll have to fool—I hate my parents. I am the son who killed them and never looked back.
“Sometimes people are just too fake,” I say, forcing a scoff into my voice like it’s second nature. Inside, my stomach twists. Every word out of my mouth slanders their memory, but it’s the only way.
