My imagination had always painted a killer as a grizzled man in his forties or fifties, with a shaved head gleaming under harsh light, a scruffy beard framing a hard-set jaw, and baggy, bloodshot eyes that carried a cold, murderous glint—his face devoid of warmth, lips never curling into a smile. But the man standing before me shatters that image entirely, a stark contradiction that leaves me reeling.
He stands in the doorway of his modest home, his navy-blue robe hanging loosely, untied, the fabric parting to reveal a chiseled chest glistening with a faint sheen of moisture. His six-pack abs, sharply defined and taut, ripple subtly with each breath, catching the soft morning light filtering through the hallway. A few errant water droplets cling to his skin, trailing lazily down the contours of his torso, as if he's just stepped out of a shower. My gaze drifts upward, drawn to his hair—medium-length, jet-black, and still damp, the ends curling slightly where water droplets drip from the tips, splattering silently onto the hardwood floor. His front bangs fall in a messy sweep across his forehead, framing his face in a disheveled, almost boyish charm. A faint shadow of stubble dusts his jaw, the kind that suggests he hasn't shaved in three or four days, yet it only sharpens his rugged appeal. His eyes—dark, fathomless pools that might be black or a deep, molten brown—lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter. His nose is sharp, aristocratic, and his jawline could cut glass, leading my eyes to the slow bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows, a motion that feels inexplicably deliberate.
"You finished ogling me?" His voice, deep and gravelly, slices through the silence, startling me like a whipcrack.
I snap my gaze back to his face, heat flooding my cheeks. "Excuse me?" I blurt, my voice cracking with embarrassment. The words hang in the air, clumsy and mortifying, and I want nothing more than to dig a hole in his perfectly manicured front yard and bury myself in it.
He raises his right eyebrow, a slow, mocking arch, and crosses his arms over his chest, the movement pulling the robe tighter against his broad shoulders. He towers over me—easily six feet, maybe more, his height imposing as he leans slightly forward. "Excuse me?" he echoes, his tone laced with dry amusement, as if I've just confirmed some unspoken suspicion. I know why he's repeating it—I was staring, gawking like an idiot, and it's rude, I get it. But it's his fault, standing there with his robe flung open, flaunting his sculpted physique like it's nothing. My mortification battles with a flicker of indignation. Should I dig that pit now, or wait for him to do it for me?
"Why's there a creep lurking outside my door first thing in the morning?" he asks, his voice dripping with annoyance, each word clipped and precise.
I bristle, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I'm here for the assistant position interview," I explain, my voice steadier than I feel. I need to shut down whatever weird assumptions he's conjuring about me before they spiral further.
He stares, his expression blank, unreadable, those dark eyes boring into me like they're peeling back layers of my soul.
His gaze remains fixed on me, unyielding and devoid of any discernible emotion, his dark eyes—black or perhaps a deep, impenetrable brown—boring into me like twin voids that see too much. The weight of his stare is suffocating, pinning me in place, but it's not just his intensity that unravels me. One nagging detail keeps clawing at the edges of my mind: how tall is he? He looms over me, his presence dominating the cramped space of the living room, and I can't shake the feeling that he's towering far beyond what's reasonable. His skin, a striking, almost luminous white, is impossibly smooth, flawless as polished marble, catching the soft morning light streaming through the window. It's a stark contrast to the shadowed intensity of his eyes, making him seem both ethereal and menacing, like a statue carved from moonlight and menace. I'm certain I read something about him—some file, some profile—but my mind is a fog, unable to dredge up even the simplest details. His height, was it listed? Six feet? Six-two? Maybe taller? He stands with such effortless command that he feels larger than life, his frame filling the room as if he owns every inch of it. The uncertainty gnaws at me, a small but persistent irritation, like a splinter I can't quite reach, amplifying my unease as I stand under his unrelenting scrutiny.
"I don't need an assistant," he says with a heavy sigh, his gaze narrowing with a mix of doubt and faint disgust. "Especially not one who creeps around and ogles instead of focusing on work. My clients are professional—sensitive, even." He steps back, his hand already on the door, ready to slam it shut.
A creep? The word stings, and my stomach twists with a mix of shame and fury. How dare he—a man rumored to be a killer, a predator who lures women to their doom after charming them—call me a creep? The irony is almost laughable, but the fear and frustration churning inside me drown out any humor. I know his reputation, the whispers of blood and betrayal, and yet here I am, needing this job, needing to convince him. If I fail, that angelic weirdo—my contact, with his saccharine smile and penchant for casually dismembering people—will make sure I regret it. I can't risk that.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and ring the doorbell again. The door swings open, and his face darkens with annoyance, clearly not expecting me to still be here. "People nowadays are persistent, I'll give them that. No shame, either," he mutters, his voice is a low growl that makes my blood simmer. I clench my fists, reminding myself: He's the killer, not me.
"I understand my first impression wasn't great," I say, forcing calm into my voice. "But you have to give me a chance to prove myself. I'm not a creep—I'm serious about this job." I pour every ounce of sincerity into my words, hoping they'll break through his icy demeanor. He glance down and noticed my clenching fist. I didn't lose the fist grib.
He steps back, his eyes narrowing as if weighing my soul. For a moment, I think he's about to slam the door again, but then he sighs. "Come in," he says, stepping aside.
I don't hesitate, stepping into his home before he can change his mind. The living room is modest but sleek—a plush gray couch flanked by two matching armchairs, a glass coffee table in the center. To my right, a massive 72-inch LED television dominates the wall, its black screen reflecting the dim light. To my left, an open kitchen stretches out, complete with a polished dining table surrounded by four chairs, and a staircase curves upward, presumably to his bedroom. The air smells faintly of coffee and something sharp, like a cleaning solution.
"Sit," he commands, pointing to the dining table with a flick of his index finger, his other hand tucked casually into his trouser pocket.
I walk to the table and sit, my hands clutching my portfolio tightly. He drags a chair across from me, the wood scraping against the floor, and sits with a lazy grace, his robe still infuriatingly open. He extends his hand, and I know what he wants. I slide my file—CV, certificates, the works—across the table.
"Answer only what I ask," he says, his voice clipped, authoritative. "I don't need your rehearsed corporate spiel." He flips open the file, scanning my documents with a single, fleeting glance before moving to the next page. He closes it with a soft snap. "You ready?"
I nod, my throat is tight.
"Can you work nights? I mean late—eleven, maybe later."
The question catches me off guard. No name, no background—just this. "Yes, I can," I reply, keeping my answer short, sensing he's probing for a reason to dismiss me.
"What do you know about cameras?"
Thank God I skimmed that photography article on the way here. "DSLRs and mirrorless cameras are popular for their versatility and image quality," I say, hoping I sound confident. "It depends on what the person's comfortable with, though."
He leans back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Impressive. Nice internet research." His tone is laced with sarcasm, and I feel a flush of shame—he knows I'm bluffing. He slides the file back to me, and for a moment, I think he's done, ready to kick me out.
"You passed," he says abruptly, leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes studying me. "I'll text you the details—date, time, venue. I hope the number you gave isn't fake."
I blink, stunned. "That's it? You don't want to ask about my major, my name, anything else?" I should be relieved, but my mouth runs before my brain catches up.
He tilts his head, his expression hardening. "Why ask when you've handed me your entire bio? Unless you wrote lies?" His voice carries a challenge, daring me to admit to something.
"No, everything's true—my name, age, certificates," I say quickly, my cheeks burning again.
"Luna Martinez, 24, graduated in art and culture," he recites, his voice flat, almost bored. "Six months at an art gallery, auctions, and museums. You didn't write why you left, and I don't care,and you win totally six art related certificates. You don't know cameras or lenses, but you know scenery, equipment, art. That's enough for me to work with when clients are around. Any questions, Miss Martinez?"
I shake my head, my voice barely above a whisper. "No, you didn't." My words feel inadequate, swallowed by the weight of his presence. He'd glanced at my documents for mere seconds—a fleeting scan of my CV, my certificates, my entire life laid bare on paper—and yet he'd recited my details with unnerving precision. Name, age, education, work history, all etched into his memory like he'd known me for years. Meanwhile, I'm standing here, my mind scrambling to recall even the simplest things about him—his height, his preferences, anything from the sparse profile I'd read. Was he six feet? Six-two? The uncertainty gnaws at me, a reminder of how out of my depth I feel.
He hums, a low, resonant sound that vibrates in the quiet room, and slides his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers. The navy-blue robe, mercifully, is now loosely tied, the fabric no longer parting to reveal the distracting planes of his toned chest, and I can't afford to lose focus now. Not when this job, this chance, hangs by a thread. His dark eyes, still unreadable, flicker over me, and I wonder if he's testing me, waiting for me to trip over my own nerves. The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken judgment, and I straighten my spine, determined not to let his intensity unravel me further.
Standing and pushing his chair back. "You can leave. I have somewhere to be." He pauses, his eyes narrowing. "I'll text you the details. And don't forget—you said you'd prove yourself. One week, Martinez. Screw up, and you're out."
I stand, clutching my file to my chest, and head for the door. Before I step outside, I turn back, professionalism kicking in despite everything. "Thanks for your time," I say, the words automatic, hollow.
He doesn't respond, but his earlier warning echoes in my head: One week. I halt, a spark of defiance flaring. "I'll make sure I extend that date," I say, meeting his gaze.
His lips twitch, not quite a smile, and he closes the door without another word. I turn and walk toward the main road, my heart pounding with a mix of triumph and dread. I've got the job—but now I have to survive working for a man who might just be a monster.