Jane stirred awake, her eyelids heavy as if weighed down by iron. Her head throbbed with exhaustion, her body sluggish as she groggily sat up from the couch. Blinking away the haze of sleep, she rubbed at her eyes and let her gaze wander around the unfamiliar room.
A creeping unease slithered through her chest. The surroundings felt both foreign and strangely opulent, as though she'd stepped into a museum curated by someone with a massive ego. Suddenly, realization hit her like a slap to the face. Her breath caught in her throat as she scanned the ornate room filled with gilded frames, elaborate statues, and walls adorned with artwork—all dedicated to the same smug, smirking face.
"Oh no… This can't be happening." The words tumbled out as dread coiled tighter around her. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. "I'm in one of John Doe's offices."
The name alone sent a shiver down her spine. Panic surged through her as questions buzzed like angry wasps in her mind. Why am I here? What happened last night? Am I even alive?
Fumbling for her phone, her hands trembled as she unlocked the screen. The sight made her jaw drop: endless notifications, a deluge of messages, all lighting up her screen. She skimmed them quickly, her attention snagging on one name—the commissioner.
"Wait… What?" she muttered, tapping on the voice message from her superior.
The recording crackled to life, the commissioner's voice calm but laced with subtle irritation.
"Hello, Miss Jane. If you're hearing this, it means you've finally woken up. First, don't panic. You passed out at the party last night, and, well, Mr. John Doe took it upon himself to ensure your safety. He had you transported to his private facility to spare you the hassle of expensive medical bills. So, rest easy—you're in safe hands. Oh, and Miss Jane, one more thing. I'm well aware of your… fixation on investigating him. Drop it. Now. Don't make this any worse. Thank you, and I'll see you soon."
The message ended with a faint beep, leaving Jane staring blankly at her phone. Her grip tightened as she tried to process the words.
"Are these people completely insane?" she hissed, her voice breaking into the silence. Realizing how loud she'd been, she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting to the door in fear of someone overhearing.
"Yeah, sure. Let's leave Jane with the playboy billionaire. I'm sure he won't try anything shady," she muttered sarcastically under her breath. Annoyed and uneasy, she glanced down at herself, her hands trembling as she cautiously ran them over her body, searching for any signs of tampering.
After a tense moment, she exhaled shakily. "Seems like nothing happened… that I can find, at least." Her voice was tinged with cautious relief, though her stomach churned with doubt.
Gripping her phone tightly, she looked around the room once more, the air thick with unease. Whatever had happened last night, one thing was certain—she needed answers.
Her eyes swept across the room again, but this time with a newfound calmness. The details she'd missed earlier began to stand out. The office was spotless, almost unnaturally so, with an air of sterile perfection that reminded her of a hospital. Even the faint perfume lingering in the air carried a medicinal undertone.
Her gaze fell to the couch she'd woken up on. It was undoubtedly expensive, with its sleek leather finish and precise stitching. Yet, it was stiff and uninviting—almost as if John didn't want anyone to get too comfortable in his presence. The positioning of the couch struck her as odd too. Facing the desk directly, it felt less like a piece of furniture and more like a prop for some kind of psychological power play.
Speaking of the desk… Jane's eyes darted around the room, scanning for cameras. To her surprise, she couldn't spot a single one. It was strange—what kind of millionaire didn't have surveillance in his office?
She took a deep breath and made her move. Stepping cautiously, she approached the polished desk. Her fingers hovered over the drawers for a moment before she opened one, rifling through its contents with practiced precision.
"I know this guy is the killer," she muttered under her breath, her detective instincts roaring back to life. The promise she'd made last night to drop her wild theories and act normal? Completely out the window.
As she sifted through the drawer, frustration bubbled up. "Books. Pictures. More books. Does this dude have anything that isn't about himself? I can't even find a single business document," she mumbled, her voice dripping with irritation as she buried herself deeper in the drawer.
"Well, if you're looking for my business stuff, they're in the closet behind you. That's my vanity drawer," a smooth voice interrupted, cutting through the silence.
Jane froze, her blood running cold. "Oh, really?" she said, trying to mask her panic with sarcasm. Without looking up, she grabbed a framed photo and held it up. "In that case, I might as well take one of these as a souvenir." Her head popped up, a smug grin forming on her lips. "Thanks for the tip—"
The words died in her throat as her eyes finally landed on the source of the voice. There he was. John Doe. Standing just a few feet away, towering over her.
He wasn't exactly tall—maybe 5'10"—but his presence was commanding, especially compared to her petite frame. His tailored suit hugged his frame perfectly, and his smug smirk only added to his intimidating aura.
"You know, most people just ask for souvenirs instead of, you know… robbing me," John drawled, his tone dripping with amusement.
Jane could only stare at him blankly, her body frozen in place as her brain struggled to catch up with the situation.
"Please don't faint again," John said, tilting his head slightly, his voice playful but firm. "I spent good money getting you treated last night."
"Jane?" His voice cut through her thoughts, accompanied by the sharp snap of his fingers right in front of her face. "Miss Janet Gabi Carter?" His tone shifted abruptly—now sharper, almost clinical, as if he were reprimanding a wayward patient.
The sound of her full name shook her from her daze. "M-Mr. John," she stammered, grabbing his hand with sudden, awkward force and shaking it as if she were trying to ground herself. Without thinking, the words tumbled out of her mouth. "How many bodies are there?"
John froze, his brow furrowing. "Bodies?" he echoed, his confusion palpable.
Realizing her slip-up, Jane scrambled to cover her tracks. "I mean… how many people have you slept with?" Her voice cracked with awkwardness as she tried to shift gears. "You know, a man of your status must, uh… get around."
John didn't miss a beat, his trademark confidence shining through. "Honestly? Too many to keep track of," he said with an unapologetic smirk, smoothly breaking the handshake.
But Jane wasn't letting it slide. "Wait," she said, narrowing her eyes. "How do you know my full name?"
John's smirk deepened, his tone dripping with smugness. "I know a lot of things, dear."
Finally regaining some semblance of composure, Jane's eyes sharpened with determination as she slipped into detective mode. "Mr. John," she started, her tone firm, "can you please explain why I'm here? And why you didn't drop me off at a hospital?"
John tilted his head, his expression a mix of mockery and charm. "Oh? Consider it an apology, Miss Carter. You know, for making you pass out and miss the party."
He turned on his heel, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he strolled toward a framed picture of himself on the wall. His movements were deliberate, his posture commanding, as though every step was part of a carefully rehearsed performance. "Besides," he continued, his voice dropping into a smoother, more suggestive tone, "I wanted to have a one-on-one chat with the little police lady who seemed utterly unimpressed by me last night."
Jane's annoyance flared. "Don't call me little," she snapped, her tone cutting.
John paused, ever so slightly taken aback, but his confident smile never faltered. "Apologies," he said, though his voice was anything but sincere. "The petite police woman, then," he added, his tone laced with teasing mockery.
Jane wasn't backing down. "So, you want to talk?" she said, sliding onto the edge of his desk with a defiant smirk. "Let's talk."
John's eyes glinted with a predatory amusement as he began circling her, his movements slow and deliberate, like a hunter sizing up its prey. "Miss Jane," he said smoothly, his voice lowering, "why did you join the force?"
Jane didn't hesitate. Her resolve was steel, her words ready.
"I joined the force for the same reason any good person does—to stop crime," Jane replied, her voice firm but tinged with a trace of unease.
John didn't bother to turn around, his eyes fixed on the picture of himself hanging on the wall. Yet, despite his apparent focus, his mind seemed distant, elsewhere. "So," he began, his voice carrying an unsettling weight, "might I ask why you weren't interested in me yesterday? You know, me not being 'all that.'"
Jane shifted awkwardly, caught off guard by the question. "Oh, you know," she said, attempting to sound nonchalant. "Rich kid and playboy? Isn't that a bit too cliché? I'm more into guys who are… a lot more personal."
Before she could regain her composure, John turned sharply and closed the distance between them. Towering over her, he leaned in, his presence overwhelming as he invaded her personal space. His voice dropped, smooth and dangerous. "I can be personal. A lot more personal." He then gently brushes some of her hair gently away from her face.
Jane's breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded furiously against her ribs, the sudden shift in his demeanor sending her thoughts spiraling. His transformation from cold and clinical to intensely seductive was almost too much for her to process. It felt like he'd donned an entirely new mask, and her fragile resolve struggled to keep up.
"Y-you don't have to get so personal so suddenly," she stammered, her eyes darting everywhere but his.
John's hand suddenly moved to his earpiece, his demeanor shifting once more. "Apologies, Miss Jane," he said coolly. "I need to take this." Without waiting for her reply, he turned and exited the room, leaving her alone.
Jane exhaled sharply, placing a trembling hand on her chest in an effort to steady her racing heart. "Sweet Lord, he's hot," she muttered under her breath, her cheeks tinged with color. Then, with a determined frown, she added, "Too bad he's a killer."
As she scanned the room, something caught her eye. In the corner, crumpled and forgotten, was a piece of paper. Curiosity piqued, she walked over and picked it up, smoothing it out. It was a resignation letter—from John's personal assistant.
"Wait a minute," Jane whispered, her eyes widening as an idea formed. "This means the position is open. This is exactly what I need to get close to him and find out everything he's hiding." Her expression hardened with determination. She tossed the paper back into the corner just as she heard John re-enter the room.
"Sorry about that, Miss Jane," he said, his tone tinged with irritation. "Important work stuff. It can't wait." He sighed, almost to himself, his weariness showing for the first time. "Doing all of this on my own is exhausting."
Seeing her chance, Jane seized the moment. "It seems like you're overworked," she said, her tone light yet probing. "Don't you have a personal assistant to help you?"
John ran a hand through his hair, his expression briefly flickering with annoyance. "Yeah, I had one," he replied, his words dripping with sarcasm. "He quit because of some family issues."
Jane's mind raced, her resolve cementing as she smiled faintly. This was her opportunity.
Jane steps forward, her determination masking the flutter of nerves in her chest. "Well, what if I became your new assistant?"
John's brow arches slightly in confusion. "Why would you want that? Don't you work as a cop?"
With her trademark awkwardness, Jane fidgets, forcing a casual shrug. "Well, yeah, but let's be honest—it doesn't exactly pay the bills. And after fainting yesterday, I don't think I can live down that kind of embarrassment." Her tone shifts suddenly, dripping with exaggerated admiration. "Besides, who could resist working for the handsome, brilliant, and oh-so-charismatic John Doe?"
John lets out a low chuckle, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I can tell when someone's buttering me up, Jane… but I've got to admit, I like it. The job's yours."
He moves to his desk, opening a drawer. But then, to Jane's surprise, he reveals a hidden compartment she hadn't noticed before. From it, he pulls out a stack of crisp bills. Without ceremony, he drops the weighty pile into her hands.
"Here," he says, his tone almost dismissive. "It's about twelve hundred. Get yourself a proper, form-fitting suit. Use the rest to treat yourself to something nice."
Jane stares down at the money in disbelief, her hands trembling slightly from the unexpected weight. A dumbfounded smile breaks across her face. "T-thanks, John," she stammers, fighting to steady herself.
John's demeanor shifts in an instant, the playful smirk vanishing. His gaze sharpens, and the air grows heavy. When he speaks, his voice carries an unmistakable authority. "That's Mr. Doe or sir to you. Now leave. I'll see you tomorrow."
The sudden change throws Jane off balance, and she practically scurries out of the room, clutching the money tightly. Outside, she leans against the wall, catching her breath as her heart pounds.
"Damn," she mutters to herself. "What the hell was that? Why did he switch up so fast?" She hesitates, biting her lip, before grudgingly admitting, "Still kind of hot, though."
Shaking her head, she straightens up and clenches her fists, her resolve returning. "Focus, Jane. You're on a case."
Jane walks home, the stack of money nestled in a small bag, clutched tightly against her chest. As she opens the door to her apartment, her eyes widen in shock—there, sitting on the center of her bed, is Peter, her co-worker, wearing an infuriatingly smug expression. It looks like he's only cleaned a small section of her room just enough to make space for himself.
Confused, Jane steps inside, her voice tinged with disbelief. "What are you doing here? And how did you even get in?"
Peter holds up a key, still chuckling. "You gave me a spare a while back."
"Oh, right," Jane mutters, brushing the memory aside. "But that doesn't matter." She bounces on the balls of her feet, grinning with excitement. "Guess what? I'm working for John now!"
Peter, unfazed, raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I know. Everyone knows. He called the station and made a pretty generous donation just to get you off our hands."
Jane's eyes widen. "He did?"
Peter leans back, his tone almost playful, yet with a hint of sadness. "Yep. So, I guess I'll be seeing less of you now. Gotta say, I'll miss having you around."
Suspicious, Jane narrows her eyes. "Why are you here, Peter? I know you didn't come just to say goodbye."
Peter stands up, his face suddenly serious. "I came to warn you," he says, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. "Don't mess this up. This is an opportunity of a lifetime."
Jane looks at his hand for a moment before gently placing hers on top of his. "Don't worry," she reassures him softly. "I know what I'm doing."
Peter pulls his hand away, his expression softening. "Well, then. I'll leave you to it. No need to send in a resignation letter. And I'll try to visit whenever I can." He turns to leave, locking the door behind him with the spare key.
As the door clicks shut, Jane's smile fades, replaced by a look of unwavering determination. "Jane, you finally did it. Now you're in the belly of the beast." She strides over to her wall of evidence, her gaze sharp and focused. "It's about time we bring this monster to justice."