Cassandra took one last drag of her cigarette, the ember glowing a dull orange as she inhaled. The smoke curled between her fingers, twisting lazily in the dim light before vanishing into the air. She exhaled slowly, controlled, as if savoring the moment—then, with a flick of her wrist, she crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. The hiss of smoldering embers against glass was barely audible, but final.
"So, did you kill the cat?" I asked, blunt and direct.
Cassandra exhaled, a ghost of smoke curling from her lips before she crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, snuffing it out with slow, deliberate pressure.
"Why? Planning to open a cat shelter?" she countered smoothly.
"I'm not a cat lover," I said, watching her closely. "Especially the untamed, obnoxious ones."
She chuckled, dark amusement flickering in her eyes. "Maybe you just don't like anything you can't control. Typical misogynist logic."
"Let's not get philosophical," I said flatly. "You're avoiding the question."
She tilted her head, considering me.
She always did this—answering without ever truly answering. Every word she spoke wasn't a response; it was a carefully placed riddle, designed to throw me off.
"Alright, then," she said finally, leaning back in her chair. She smiled, slow and knowing, like she was settling in for a show. "Go ahead."
"Cathouse?" I asked.
She blinked, then smirked. "Another cat reference? You're obsessed."
"Don't play dumb."
"Oh?" Her voice shifted, amusement thinning into something more pointed. She met my gaze, her eyes steady, unblinking. "Enlighten me."
"It's an illegal brothel," I said. "Disguised as a motel."
Her lips curled in a slow smile, mocking, sharp-edged. "And what, exactly, are you suggesting? You think I'm a hooker now?"
I glanced at her hands. Long fingers, delicate but not soft. Bony, nails imperfect but still elegant. The kind of hands that could hold power or deliver ruin. The kind that was perfect for hand jobs.
She was perfect. Every inch of her.
"No."
She arched a brow. "Then?"
"How did you know about it?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"You're not in a position to ask personal questions." My tone cut through the air, sharp, leaving no room for argument.
She pursed her lips, raising her brows as if amused by my resistance. Then, slowly, she folded her arms. "Tell me more about this little secret of yours."
"The Cathouse operated under strict anonymity. Sex workers used codenames. Employees never revealed their real identities." I paused, watching for a flicker of recognition. "But there was one woman. A mysterious figure known as Catwoman."
Her expression didn't change, but something in the air did.
"The irony?" I continued. "She was draped in luxury. Every piece of her—from the jewels on her fingers to the shoes on her feet—spoke of wealth. A woman with no need to sell herself, yet she was there. A mystery wrapped in silk and sin."
Cassandra shrugged, flicking invisible ash from her sleeve. "And why should that interest me?"
"Because," I said, "she was tall—five-seven, maybe five-eight. Luscious dark hair. A presence that drew attention the moment she walked in. Worst of all, she wore a mask."
Her lips parted slightly, but whether in feigned offense or genuine curiosity, I couldn't tell.
"So, every woman with that description is apparently me?"
"Not every woman," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "Just one, kitty."
She tilted her head, amusement flickering back. "And now you're giving me pet names? How sweet."
"Not you," I said. "That was her name. Kitty."
For the first time, she paused.
A fraction of a second. A flicker in her expression.
Then she laughed. Low, throaty, utterly unbothered. "How… adorable."
But I saw it. That moment of hesitation.
And that meant I had struck something real.
Cassandra leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes gleaming with something I couldn't quite place—mockery, amusement, or something deeper. "So tell me, Lorr," she mused, voice smooth as silk. "What exactly are you implying? That I pranced around in some seedy little brothel under a ridiculous name like 'Kitty'?"
"I'm saying the pieces fit."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're reaching."
"Maybe." I leaned back, mirroring her posture. "But I know you. You're meticulous. Calculated. You wouldn't go somewhere like that unless it served a purpose."
She tilted her head, considering me. "And what purpose would that be?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"So Lorr, did you ever love?"
My expression suddenly shifted, I stretched myself away from the table, avoiding her gaze and looked down the floor beneath me. I didn't answer her.
"Let me guess.," she added, "You are looking for a kind of love that you won't get in brothel."
I exhaled slowly, pressing my tongue against my molars. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.
Cassandra watched me, waiting. Enjoying this.
Finally, I let out a quiet chuckle—low, humorless. "You really don't like answering questions, do you?"
She smiled, lazy and knowing. "I just prefer the interesting ones."