DEATH SMILES AT US ALL; ALL A MAN CAN DO IS SMILE BACK
"The final five can come in now," the woman called as the third group stepped out of the interview room.
Showtime.
I stood, squaring my shoulders and straightening my back. I was nervous—beyond nervous—but I swore I wouldn't show it. Chin raised, I walked toward the door, ignoring the faint "Good luck" from the young man who'd earlier assumed I had inside connections. He stepped out with the other four, none of them making eye contact.
The door clicked shut behind us.
My eyes scanned the room. The décor was minimalistic, but unnervingly sterile—too clean, too white, too still. It was designed to put people on edge. Like you were sitting in a blank void, and the only thing that existed was the judgmental presence across the table: three sharp-eyed figures behind a polished black desk—two middle-aged women and one older man—gazing at you like they could see straight through your skin.
The man in the center kept his eyes locked on mine, clearly trying to unnerve me.
Too bad, old man. I eat rusty bones like you for breakfast.
My gaze swept around the room briefly, searching.
For someone.
There was an empty chair in the far corner. My eyes lingered on it.
No questions. No reaction. Just a slight tilt of the head.
Then I walked to the five seats in front of the desk and took the middle one without waiting to be asked. My posture was perfect—spine straight, gaze hard, fixed directly on the man.
I needed to show him I wasn't intimidated.
Still, a small part of me wondered if I was pushing too hard. Too defiant. I didn't want to come across as a threat.
No interviewer hires someone they're terrified of.
The others were still standing. I could feel their eyes boring into me, probably expecting me to realize my 'mistake' and stand back up.
It wasn't a mistake. And I couldn't pretend it was. Getting up now would make me look sloppy.
And if there's one thing interviewers love, it's a candidate who owns their actions.
Or in my case, their bitchiness.
The woman on the left leaned forward first. Blonde hair tied in a severe bun. Lips tight. Fingers tapping a pen.
"You may all have a seat," she said, her gaze still locked on me. "You," she added, "state your name for the record."
"Lilithine," I replied calmly.
"Last name?"
"I dropped it," I answered, foolishly confident.
A pause.
She blinked. The old man in the center let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Confident," he said. "I like that. Let's see if it holds up."
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Or punch myself in the throat.
The panel collected the others' names, and the assistant standing by the door gathered our resumes and placed them on the desk.
The man on the right grabbed mine and started flipping through.
"No affiliations. No official record of work experience. Yet you somehow made the final shortlist. Care to explain?"
What I wanted to say was:
Funny story. My partner and I had an amazing resume on his laptop, but I accidentally erased it by spilling coffee all over the damn thing. So we slapped together a weak one, didn't make the cut, hunted down and killed the man who stood in my way, and forgot to revise it again because we were so exhausted from the murder.
But instead I said:
"I never needed a record to make an impact."
The woman frowned. "That sounds vague."
"Maybe you're listening for the wrong kind of noise," I said sweetly—just enough ambiguity to leave her unsure whether to be offended.
The blonde woman cleared her throat.
"I'm sure you're all aware that the CEO announced—during the press conference—that he'd be leading these interviews personally?" Her gaze was fixed on me.
We all nodded.
"Well, rest assured, he's watching," she continued. "And if you're lucky enough to make it to stage three, you may be fortunate enough to sit before him. But only if this group impresses us first."
Wait—three stages?
Way to prolong an interview that was rushed into so dramatically.
More importantly: Carter was watching?
I resisted the urge to scan the walls for a hidden camera. The last thing I wanted was for him to catch my reaction.
Especially after… what happened in the lobby.
I needed a clear head if I was going to make it through this stupid first round.
The interview began. The panelists fired questions at the four other candidates—nothing too challenging, but enough to test them.
None were directed at me.
Not even one.
I kept my face neutral, expression unreadable.
I figured they were doing it on purpose. Trying to rattle me.
I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Besides, my competitors were doing just fine. Let them answer. Maybe if the panel liked them enough, I'd slip into the next round unnoticed.
That hope died when the old man finally turned his head toward me.
"Ms. Lily," he began.
"Lilithine," I corrected quickly.
What the hell is wrong with me today?
"Potato, potahto," he said with a smirk. "One question before we wrap up."
I smiled inwardly. Saving the best for last, huh?
"Go ahead, sir."
"Let's say we drop you into a zone with active hostility—two rival factions, limited visibility, and no tech. Who do you neutralize first?"
Random. Specific.
I didn't hesitate. "The one who thinks they're untouchable."
"And why?"
"Normally, it's fun to play the long game. Take out the pawns. Lure the leaders. But arrogance leaks. And leaks get people killed."
There was a shift in the air.
The blonde woman's pen stopped.
"You speak like someone who's done this before," she said.
"Observation sharpens when survival depends on it."
The old man let out another chuckle—sharper this time.
"And what exactly were you surviving, Ms. Lily?"
I smiled. Cold. Unapologetic.
"That's a question for the next interview. If I'm lucky enough to make it."
—
OMNIPRESENCE
A dim room. A figure sits in front of a screen, eyes glued to it.
A woman kneels before him, her lips and hands stroking his length. The glow from the screen is the only light in the room.
His phone buzzes.
He picks it up.
"She's either brilliant… or lying through her teeth," the voice on the other end says.
"I see," he replies.
"What are your orders?"
Without looking, the man grabs the woman's neck. Lifts her up. Her terrified face rises just in time to catch the thick hot white splash across her cheek.
He tightens his grip. With a snap, her neck breaks.
Her head slumps sideways. Dead.
"The show must go on," he says, tossing her aside like trash—eyes never leaving the screen.