"What's the color of your underwear?"
His voice dripped with mock innocence, and it took everything in me not to snap.
"What's the color of your underwear?"
I inhaled deeply, trying to remind myself that I was here for a purpose—professionality, control, patience. I will not discuss such things with you.
He leaned in, his gaze fixated on me, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "What's the color of your underwear, Doctor?"
I clenched my fists beneath the table, but I kept my face neutral. He was toying with me, testing my limits. The question wasn't even the worst part—it was the arrogance in his tone. The challenge in his voice, daring me to respond, to break.
"I will not discuss such things with you…" I muttered, eyes narrowing.
He chuckled darkly, tapping his fingers on the armrest, clearly enjoying this game. "Why not? It's a simple question, really. I'd think someone with your... intellect would appreciate directness. Don't you enjoy a little honesty, Doctor?"
His words hung in the air, thick with sarcasm. My professional demeanor was wearing thin.
"You're not clever," I shot back, trying to ground myself in the calm I prided myself on. "And I'm here for a different purpose, Mr. Alessandro. If you want to talk about my underwear, you'll have to get in line behind my patient notes."
He leaned back, a sigh escaping his lips as if I had just disappointed him. "Such a letdown, Doctor. I thought you'd be fun. I mean, who wouldn't want to have a little fun with a criminal mastermind like myself?"
I felt a sick chill race down my spine. He wasn't just playing games; he was testing me. And there was no limit to how far he would go.
"Weak!"
The moment he called me weak, something in me cracked.
That word.
My father used it like a weapon—cold, sharp, unrelenting. It cut through years of silence, of progress. It was the reason I chose this career, the reason I kept going.
Being confronted with it now?
It felt like drowning.
"Navy blue," I said, low but clear enough.
He leaned in slightly, pretending to strain.
"Sorry, Doc. I saw your lips move, but… nothing came out."
I forced a smile. It didn't feel professional—just tight. Cold.
"Navy blue," I repeated, more firmly.
Still, he played dumb.
Head tilted. Eyes full of mischief. "Didn't quite catch that, Doc."
And that was it.
"NAVY BLUE!" I snapped.
He grinned.
"No need to shout—unless you're trying to get me into them."
Casual. Cruel.
He waved a hand as if to dismiss the whole thing.
"Your turn, Doc."
I gripped my notepad tighter. Deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Stay calm, Camila Mary-Anne Rodrigo.
"You claim your killing method is a form of control," I said. "So… when the method changes, does that mean you've lost it?"
For the first time, he paused. Eyes narrowed. Thoughtful.
Got you.
Or so I thought.
He exhaled, disappointed. Shook his head.
"How do you feel?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked.
"I believe it's still my turn, Mr. Alessandro."
"I know that," he said, his tone patronizing. "Just surprised someone who graduated with honors asks questions that feel so… remedial."
I stiffened.
He didn't just insult my intelligence—he questioned my right to be here.
And the person doing it?
A murderer.
A man who asked me about my underwear.
A man who, if given the chance, I'd stake, castrate, and set on fire.
"Answer. The. Damn. Question," I said, each word colder than the last.
He raised his hands, amused. "Relax, Doc. I will. But tell me—did that question sound smart in your head?"
"Mr. Alessandro—"
"Right, right," he interrupted, waving it off. "To answer your question—does method equal control?"
He leaned in, elbows on the table, giving the illusion of seriousness.
"From emptying a clip into a skull to slowly carving through bone... it's all about control. The how doesn't matter. The why doesn't matter. Every kill is mine. Unlike your questions."
My jaw clenched. "So you've never lost control?"
He tsked. "Ah-ah, Doctor. My turn."
I straightened, bracing for whatever nonsense came next.
"When was the last time you had sex?"
What the hell is wrong with this man?
I shifted, keeping my gaze fixed on the notepad. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He smirked. "Silent now? Or are you a virgin?"
I didn't answer.
"Come on, Doc. Give me something. I tire of reminding you—details matter."
I looked up, unflinching.
"It's been a while."
He scoffed. "Obviously. No sane man would bother."
I smiled tightly. "Appropriate questions deserve appropriate answers."
"Still not the answer to my question," he said, smug.
"A year. Give or take," I replied, voice flat. "Happy now, Mr. Alessandro?"
He leaned back, hands folded behind his head.
"You know there's a reason you're over there, and I'm over here."
My brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He sighed.
"For Pete's sake, do I have to spell it out?"
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.
"You're sitting there asking pointless questions because no one ever told you what this job really is. You think your degree means something in here? You think you're in control?"
That was the final straw.
I gathered my notes.
"I believe we're done for today, Mr. Alessandro."
He laughed under his breath. "You know why I'm here, Doc? Because I give details. I kill with intention. You? You scribble on paper and hope it makes you smarter."
I snapped my notebook shut.
"Good day, Mr. Alessandro. Till Saturday."
I stood near the door, waiting for the guards.
He wasn't finished.
"The next time you're locked in here with me, it won't be this easy-going, Doctor. You might want to go study up. It takes a genius to understand Alessandro Giovanni."
I didn't turn around.
Because if I did—I might've done something I'd regret.
The door buzzed open. Two guards stood waiting.
I walked out.
Just as his voice followed me, echoing through the corridor:
"Run, little rabbit. Run away like the weak little thing you are!"
The metal door slammed shut behind me.
Silence.
Outside the prison, the sun blazed. I ordered a ride—five-minute wait.
I stood still, the heat pressing down, my shadow stretching long across the concrete.
And in that stillness, the entire session replayed in my mind.
Every word. Every grin. Every manipulation.
He wasn't just another sick bastard.
He wasn't some textbook case.
He was something else entirely.
The devil's spawn.
And next time?
I'll be ready.
But right now?
I need a drink.