She leaned in closer, her arms folded, her presence dark and magnetic. The dim light barely touched the hollows of her face, leaving only the gleam of her eyes—sharp, knowing. She had a way of pulling the air around her, like the chill before a whisper in an empty room.
Fucking ghost of an abandoned mansion.
Her voice slithered through the hush, low and silken, laced with something crisp at the edges, like the snap of a cold wind through broken windows. It was the kind of voice that belonged to stories you weren't supposed to hear—secrets murmured in the dark, confessions left to decay in forgotten places.
"Once upon a time," she began.
A shiver coiled at the base of my spine. I didn't know if it was her voice or the weight of the unseen that settled around us, pressing in. Maybe both. Either way, I was hooked.
"Once upon a time, there lived a witch in a pristine princess marble mansion with her cat. Abandoned and hidden from the society, she was happy and alone with her cat. The cat had a black and orange fur, soft fur.
The cat loved her owner and she even rubbed her fur against her legs. One day, the cat ran away from her. The cat was upset and waited for her desperately. Weeks passed, she didn't arrive and then suddenly she was there in a couch in a great condition with a collar. She was a collarless kitty, she had grown fatter and plump. She knew that the cat had a new owner.
The witch felt betrayed by her pet cat. She didn't react infact she was calm, she even played with the bell of the new collar encircling the cat's neck, the ring of true betrayal. The witch stood and poured the milk for her and the cat died few minutes later, gobbling a fuzz of milk."
She finished her story with an ease that didn't match the weight of her words. It should have felt like a tragic fable, something distant and long buried, but instead, it felt alive—poetic, mysterious, and unsettling. Just like her.
"Tragic tale," I murmured.
"Isn't it?" she replied, a hint of amusement curling at the edges of her lips.
I tilted my head. "Does it have to do with a dead cat?"
She chuckled then, a low, dark sound that sent a ripple through the air. "Mr. Hoffman, can I get a cigarette?"
I raised a brow, tapping the ash from mine. "Why? Feeling nervous?"
The moment I said it, I regretted it. It sounded off—too dramatic, too obvious.
She, however, only smirked. "I don't think so," she said, stretching her fingers as if rolling the thought between them.
"Besides, the weather's perfect. Cigarettes are meant for burning lungs to charcoal, aren't they?"
I took a slow drag, letting the ember at the tip glow between my fingers.
I smiled, exhaling smoke. "So… you poisoned your cat?"
Her eyes gleamed. "When did I say it was mine?"
"Then whose? Your neighbor's? Someone disturbing your peace?"
She extended a hand, palm up, signaling for a lighter. I passed it to her, an unspoken familiarity settling between us.
"No, it was my.... umm... let's say a good time."
She lit the cigarette with a practiced flick, inhaled deep—one of those long, deliberate drags that seemed to seep into every inch of her lungs. Then, with a slow, measured breath, she blew the smoke right into my face.
I coughed. Just a little.
"Your good time, huh?" I asked, watching the way her lips curled around the filter.
She exhaled through her nose this time, eyes flickering toward mine.
"Yes," she murmured. "He left his tabby cat with me."
She didn't say more. She didn't need to. The way she said it was enough to tell me that whatever had happened—whatever the cat truly represented—was a story I wasn't going to get in plain words.
I flicked the ash off my cigarette, watching as the embers crumbled and scattered.
"So, he left his tabby cat to you," I echoed, rolling the words on my tongue like they might taste different the second time around.
Cassandra leaned back, exhaling smoke through slightly parted lips, her eyes half-lidded, unreadable. "Yes. A beautiful cat. Soft fur. Loyal, until he wasn't."
The way she said it—like she wasn't talking about the cat at all—made the air between us heavier.
"And what happened to him?" I asked.
"The cat?" Her lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Or the owner?"
I held her gaze, waiting.
She tapped her cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, slow, deliberate. "Well, you already know what happened to the cat."
I hummed. "And the owner?"
She chuckled again, dark and smooth. "Mr. Hoffman, are you always this curious about people's pasts?"
I took another drag, let the smoke fill my lungs before I spoke. "Only when they tell bedtime stories laced with murder."
She laughed then, the kind of laugh that didn't belong in a police interrogation room, but in a candlelit bar where deals were made with a wink and a whisper. "Fair enough," she mused, "but let's just say—he never came back for his cat."
I leaned in slightly, watching her. "By choice, or by circumstance?"
She took another long drag, tilting her head slightly, as if considering. Then, she blew the smoke in my direction again, smirking as I waved it away.
"Does it matter?" she asked, her tone smooth, effortless. "Let's just say the cat drank the poison because I accidentally left a toxic chemical on the table while working as an ophthalmologist."
I let out a dry chuckle. "Since when do ophthalmologists keep arsenic lying around?"
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Experiments, Hoffman."
I arched a brow. "Right. Because eye doctors are now in the business of making poison for eyes too?"
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she took another slow drag of her cigarette, the ember flaring between her fingers. The silence stretched, heavy, deliberate.
Then, finally, she exhaled, smoke curling around her like a ghost of a smirk.
"You'd be surprised what we keep on our tables."