The walk home is always the test.
The street is half-lit, like God got tired halfway through creation. My boots echo in rhythm with his sneakers — too fast, too eager. He stays half a step behind, probably thinking it's chivalry. It's not. It's strategy. He's waiting for the turn, for the moment I hesitate. That's when they act.
But I don't hesitate.
I know every crack in the pavement, every flickering streetlamp, every neighbor who minds their own business too well. I walk these streets like I own them. Because I do.
He laughs nervously. "You sure you're safe walking alone at night?"
There it is — the third lie.
That they're worried for you, when really, they're worried you might not be easy.
"I'm used to it," I say.
My voice is sugar and steel.
He talks about how dangerous the world is. How women need men for protection.
I let him preach.
It's always the ones with the sermons that never survive the altar.
My building isn't far. Third floor. End of the hall.
No cameras. No neighbors who ask questions.
When I unlock the door, he pauses. "You sure it's okay I come in?"
That's the fourth lie:
That they ask for consent because they care about the answer.
I open the door wider.
The room is quiet. Dim.
There's a single chair in the center — where I always leave it.
He doesn't notice. They never do.
He steps in.
I close the door.
And lock it.
The sound clicks like punctuation. His smile falters.
Too late.
I don't raise my voice. I don't scream. I never do.
Instead, I take off my coat. Hang it slowly.
He looks at me like he's reading the wrong page and just realized the story isn't what he thought.
"Nice place," he says.
I nod.
I walk past him. Calm. Controlled.
My fingers brush the drawer under the shelf.
He still thinks this is foreplay.
"You thirsty?" I ask.
He nods.
I hand him a glass of water — the one I always keep ready.
He drinks.
They always do.
The drugs take five minutes.
I sit. Wait. Watch.
He starts blinking too much. Breathing weird.
Then the fear sets in.
Not because of what's happening — but because he doesn't know why.
That's the final lie:
That they're in control.
He slumps forward, groaning.
By the time he realizes he should've stayed at his table, I've already put gloves on.
Another man who mistook quiet for soft.
Another lesson.
Another name I won't remember.