There's a knock at my door.
Not the timid kind, not the hesitant kind, but the kind that says, "I know you're in there, and I'm not leaving until you face me."
I sigh. I already know who it is before I even open it.
"Mr. Cross," my landlord, Greg, greets me with a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's got that exasperated, I've-had-enough look on his face—the same look he's been giving me for months now. "It's the fifteenth."
"I am aware." I lean against the doorframe, offering him my best I'm-trying-my-best expression. "And you will have your money soon."
"You said that last month."
"And I meant it." I cross my arms. "Look, Greg, you know how these things go. I'm a therapist. Sometimes people don't pay on time. Sometimes, they disappear. Emotional turmoil is unpredictable."
Greg exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "Emotional turmoil doesn't pay rent, Cross."
See, that's what I hate about men like Greg. No vision. No understanding of the bigger picture. He's stuck in the mundane world of due dates and overdue notices while I'm out here reshaping lives. He doesn't get it. But it doesn't matter. Because I'm about to make sure he never has to worry about money—or anything—ever again.
"Listen," he continues, voice lowering into something more serious. "I like you. You're a weird guy, but you mostly keep to yourself. But I have a daughter. And I can't keep covering for you while I have a kid to feed."
Ah. The daughter. I had almost forgotten about her. Almost. She's the only reason Greg is still breathing at this very moment. Because I do have rules. Lines I don't cross.
But Greg… Greg is an obstacle. And I don't keep obstacles around for long.
I give him one last smile. "You're right, Greg. You shouldn't have to cover for me."
He frowns, momentarily thrown off by my sudden agreement. "Wait, what?"
Then, I grab him by the collar and yank him inside.
The basement is clean. I pride myself on that. No unnecessary clutter, no distractions. Just a space where problems get solved.
Greg is tied to the chair, panting, his eyes darting around the room, searching for a way out that doesn't exist.
"Look," he gasps, "I—this isn't necessary. I was just asking for the rent, man. We can figure something out—"
I sigh, pacing slowly. "Greg, Greg, Greg. I wanted to be reasonable. I really did. But you kept pushing. And now, we're here."
His face twists in panic. "My daughter—"
"Will be fine," I cut in. "She'll grieve. She'll cry. But people move on. And frankly, Greg, I don't care."
His lips tremble, forming words that never come out. I don't give him the chance to beg. That would be cruel.
The knife does its job, and soon, Greg is just another loose end tied up. Literally.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I wash the last traces of Greg down the drain. When I see the name on the screen, I feel something stir inside me—excitement, anticipation.
Cassandra.
I answer, keeping my voice smooth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
There's music in the background. Laughter. Ice clinking against glass. "You drink beer?" she asks, sounding lazy, amused.
I chuckle. "I drink everything."
"Well, come drink with me." Her voice drops slightly, teasing. "Husband's out of town. Thought I'd have a little party."
I lean against the counter, eyes drifting toward the basement door. "And you thought of me?"
"Of course. You're my favorite therapist."
I smile. "I'll be there."
Because really, where else would I rather be?