The mom at the next table gathered up her kids and left, shooting me one last disgusted look. Good. Fuck her and her judgment. She probably had a husband with a steady job and a 401k. She'd never sat across from the devil in a cardigan, weighing her dignity against six figures.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"Of course." Winters stood, smoothing down his cardigan. "Take all the time you need. The offer remains open." He pulled out a business card, placing it neatly beside the folder. "When you're ready—if you're ready—simply sign and return the documents to the address listed. We'll handle the rest."
He left without another word, taking his briefcase and his careful neutrality with him. I sat there for another hour, reading and re-reading every page, my coffee growing cold and bitter.
The smart thing would be to take the money and run. Ghost them completely. What were they going to do, sue me? They'd already given me the cash. It was probably some rich asshole's tax write-off, or a psychology PhD candidate with morefunding than sense. Sign the papers, ignore their calls, keep the money.
Easy.
I borrowed a pen from the tired-looking barista and signed my name with a flourish that would've made my high school English teacher proud. Lilah West, in all its glory, selling my theoretical soul for a very real hundred grand.
The folder felt heavier when I picked it up.
Outside, the Seattle rain had started again, that constant drizzle that made everything gray and soft around the edges. I ducked under an awning to pull out my phone, checking my bank balance one more time. Still there. Still real.
"Fuck it," I muttered, shoving the folder into my messenger bag. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Three Months Later
The knock on my door came at 3 AM.
I'd almost forgotten about the whole thing. Almost. The money had been spent—debt paid, car fixed, three months of rent in advance on a nicer apartment in a building with actual security. I'd kept the folder, shoved in a drawer under old takeout menus and expired coupons. Sometimes I'd pull it out, read through it again, laugh at my own paranoia.
No one had called. No one had emailed. The business card led to a disconnected number. The address was a PO Box that, according to Google, didn't exist.
I'd won. Scammed the scammers. Beaten the system.
The knock came again. Harder this time.
I rolled out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat I kept propped against my nightstand. "We don't want any!" I shouted,stumbling toward the door in an oversized t-shirt and underwear. "Wrong apartment! Go away!"
Silence.
I peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty, lit by those harsh fluorescents that made everyone look like they were dying. I was about to go back to bed when I saw it—a manila envelope on my doormat.
Everything in me screamed not to open that door. To leave the envelope where it was, maybe call the cops, definitely invest in better locks. But curiosity won. It always did.
The envelope was heavy, expensive paper that felt more like fabric. No address. No postage. Just my name in neat, printed letters: MISS LILAH WEST.
Inside, a single sheet of paper. Same expensive stock. Same neat printing.
**Dear Miss West,
Your participation period begins in 72 hours.
A car will arrive at 3:00 AM on Friday. Please bring only yourself. All necessary items will be provided.
We look forward to your contribution to behavioral science.
Sincerely,
The Mire Institute**
Below that, in smaller text that made my blood run cold:
As per section 47-B of your signed agreement: All rights of refusal revoked upon activation.
