I ask her to come in. The moment she steps into the room, the same hot, helpless anger I felt when I looked at Constance overwhelms me. It's a reflex, a poison in my blood.
She's a woman in her thirties, standing confidently on red stiletto pumps, wrapped in a severe black corporate dress that's meant to look professional but is cut just a little too tight. A knowing, victorious smile is already on her lips as she steps inside and turns to lock the door behind her. I almost laugh at the irony. This is going to be even easier than I thought.
"It's nice of you to honour my invitation, Ms. Grey," I greet, taking a slow sip from my wine glass. I keep my voice flat, neutral.
She sits on the couch like she owns the place, crosses her legs, and picks up the other glass, drinking down the wine in one long swallow. "This is lovely, Maddox," she purrs.
Aaron's memory surfaces: her in this same office weeks ago, offering herself, then threatening him when he recoiled. He'd paid no attention to her since he started at Stanbury. The woman was just frustrated by his complete, professional indifference to her advances.
Personally, I think it's because there's nothing truly desirable about her. She's not unattractive, but there's a calculated hardness to her, a lack of warmth. She's just not the kind of person worth sinning for, not worth the inevitable mess.
My eyes scan the desk. I remember the smart glasses Aaron had purchased to watch football games on his phone during slow days at the university. I find them in the top drawer. I clean the lenses with a tissue, slip them on, and click the tiny button on the side. A soft, almost invisible blue light confirms they've started recording.
"You know there were other ways to persuade me, Darcy," I say, steering the conversation. "You've ruined my career with this."
"I had no other choice," she shrugs, swirling the empty glass. "You were really underestimating me."
"I thought you had a fiancé?"
"Well," she says, her smile turning brittle, "I'm pretty sure he's cheating too. It's not that big a deal. Men always cheat, don't they?"
My guts curl with a cold disgust at how casually she says it, taking another imagined sip from her empty glass as if toasting her own cynical worldview.
"So you'll go this far," I ask, keeping my tone deceptively mild, "just to have sex with me?"
She scoffs, a sharp, ugly sound. "Of course not. I just want you to remember what happens when you say no to me, Aaron. I want you, and I want you permanently."
She sets the empty glass down with a definitive click. I take my glasses off, pretending to adjust them, angling them slightly on the desk to better capture her face. Then I walk to the small refrigerator in the corner. "Care for something stronger?" I ask, my back to her.
[How did you get that?] My system buzzes in my head as I pull the small, unlabeled vial of cyanide from my inner pocket.
"Found it in Samael's office yesterday," I respond mentally, and truthfully. I'd pocketed it on instinct, thinking it might be useful. If my plan held, this would be a clean, quiet end.
I pour a decent measure of expensive dry gin into a fresh glass, my body blocking her view. My movements are smooth, practiced. I tip the vial, letting a single, clear dose mix seamlessly with the alcohol.
"You're one hell of an attractive man," she giggles from the couch, the sound grating.
"I know." I keep my voice devoid of emotion. I place the gin on the table in front of her, then walk to her side and sit on the arm of the couch, looking down at her. "What do you mean by 'permanently'?"
"I don't want you around anyone else," she says, her eyes gleaming. "We could meet up, get our little routine going. What do you think?"
"You're proposing an affair?" I make it sound like I'm considering it.
She stands and wraps her hands around my neck, her fingers cool. I love how she thinks she's in control, that she has some unbreakable grip on me. Her perfume is cloying, too sweet.
"Definitely. And if you don't accept, Aaron," she grins, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "I may have to do it again. Who knows what I can come up with next? Fake another suicide attempt? Rip my clothes off and scream for help because you're trying to rape me again, right after calling me here for a so-called peaceful dialogue? I'm very creative." She chuckles, leaning in to kiss me.
I place a firm palm against her shoulder, slowly pushing her back. "Not yet," I say, my voice low.
I lean away, turn off the recording on the smart glasses with a discreet click, and take out my phone to stop the voice recorder. I save the audio file. The evidence is solid. Carefully, I pick up the glass of spiked gin and hand it to her.
"You're quite a mastermind," I comment, my eyes fixed on her as she brings the glass to her lips.
She gulps it down without hesitation, the triumph back in her eyes. I cover the gin bottle and hand it to her. She takes it, her triumphant smile slowly transitioning to a flicker of confusion as she feels the unfamiliar burn in her throat.
"So," she says, her voice slightly strained, "is this a yes or a no?"
"Hold that for me and wait in your office," I instruct, standing up. "I'll be there in a few minutes."
She cups my cheek, a nasty grin curling her lips. "I knew you weren't dumb, darling."
I nod, a cold, empty motion. I walk her to the door, grabbing my coat from the hanger on the way. "You should probably take these with you too, Darcy," I say, handing her the smart glasses.
"Huh?"
I open my phone and send the audio recording to her number. A second later, her phone chimes. "I've got a full recording of our conversation. On my phone, and on those glasses. Just in case you get any ideas about double-crossing me. Hold onto it while you wait."
"Are you sick?" she gasps, then coughs, a dry, harsh sound. The poison is beginning its work. Perfect.
"Get rid of the evidence, okay? Once you do, we have a deal."
"Fine," she wheezes, clutching the bottle and glasses to her chest. "But don't you ever try something like that again."
"You have my word," I say, my expression blank. "I'll just grab a condom from my car and meet you."
"Great then," she manages, the giddiness fighting with the dawning discomfort as she turns and shuffles out into the hallway.
I wait a beat, then step out myself, shutting the office door firmly. I make sure to walk directly under the hallway camera, letting it capture me leaving first, alone.
[You didn't sleep with her?] The system's voice is laced with what might be confusion.
"It wasn't necessary," I think back, striding toward the stairwell instead of the elevator.
[You are an incubus, Aaron. Seduction is your function.]
"I also have a brain," I respond. I pull out my phone again, finishing the final detail of my pre-written report. I send it directly to the campus police tip line, then attach a screenshot of the sent report and text it to Darcy. "I invited Darcy Grey to plead with her to clear my name. She attempted to blackmail me and discovered I was gathering evidence. I left my office during the altercation. In a panicked bid to destroy the evidence, she took it from my possession. After discovering I had already filed a report with the authorities, she committed suicide."
[Ingenious. However, how do you intend to defeat her beast after its manifestation? You are not yet capable of combat.]
"That's when you become useful," I say, pushing open the stairwell door and starting my descent. "From my understanding, I'm allocated a private faction within Jezebel's Den as an initiate."
[That is correct. A sub-realm for training and quota management.]
"Convert it into a dungeon."
[What? Clarify.]
"I can't trust a public confrontation. I'll lure the manifested beast there. I will look after the souls I collect personally, oversee my own quota, and report directly to the Corrupter through Samael. Now, do as you're told. That is what you were made for, isn't it?"
[This action is beyond standard protocol. It requires significant system override.]
"Then break the protocol," I sigh, reaching the ground floor and emerging into the cold afternoon air.
There's a long pause. Then, the system's voice returns, its usual flat but there's some level of concern to it;
[It's no wonder the Corrupter chose you, you're worse than the Devil.]