Chapter Three: Interview with a Predator
843 Words
Tamryn Rhidian | Morning
By the time I reached the building, I’d already rehearsed my answers a hundred times.
“This position aligns with my research background.”
“Yes, I’m adaptable under pressure.”
“No, I don’t bite my nails when I’m nervous.” (Lie.)
The headquarters of Whitemore Laboratories towered above me. Glass, steel, and quiet menace. The kind of place that didn’t just demand excellence. It devoured the unprepared.
I swallowed hard, pushed through the rotating doors, and checked in at the front desk. The receptionist, with a mechanical smile, directed me to the ninth floor. “Office 9A. Left wing. He’s expecting you.”
He. Singular. As if I should know who he was.
The elevator ride was mercifully short, though it felt like I aged five years in silence. When the doors parted, I stepped into a hallway painted in sterile whites and muted grays. A world without noise. No clocks. No footsteps. Just... pressure.
I didn’t even know how I got the interview in the first place. A classified listing hidden deep in an obscure science forum, posted under a username that looked like code. “Seeking experienced researchers. Fields: mythology, anthropology, folklore. Must be discreet.”
I had been up at 3AM, scrolling through archived posts in a haze of caffeine and job-hunt despair. Something about it drew me in. I thought it was a scam. Maybe I hoped it was,at least scams gave quick answers. But a day later, I received a cryptic email with coordinates, an appointment time, and a single line: “Prepare your truth.”
Office 9A was minimalist, surgical even. Nothing out of place. And at its center, seated behind a matte-black desk, was a man with cold, calculating steel-gray eyes that locked onto me like crosshairs.
“Tamryn Rhidian,” he said. “Sit.”
His voice was calm. Too calm. Like still water hiding the weight of something enormous beneath.
I sat without speaking, back straight, hands clasped too tightly in my lap.
He didn’t offer a greeting or introduction. Just picked up my résumé and scanned it as though he already knew what it said and was just confirming a hunch.
“You’re applying for the Department Seven researcher position.”
“Yes,” I said.
His gaze didn’t move, but something shifted in the air. As if he was listening with more than just ears. My heartbeat, loud in my own head, suddenly felt like a liability.
“You studied comparative myth and historical anthropology.”
“I did.”
“Your thesis. Adaptive mythologies across post-industrial civilizations. Explain.”
I inhaled, the words ready. “I wanted to understand how ancient folklore persisted in modern societies. What stories endure, and why. My theory was that these myths don’t die—they evolve. They adapt to new fears, new environments.”
He blinked slowly. No reaction.
“You believe myth holds truth,” he said. Not a question.
“I believe myth holds patterns and patterns lead to truth.”
That seemed to catch him. A flicker of interest passed through his face, as if he’d just discovered something unexpected beneath a microscope.
“Have you ever fabricated research results?”
“No.”
“Do you consider yourself loyal to facts or to people?”
“Facts.”
“Do you lie when you’re nervous?”
“No.”
Lie.
I could feel the pulse in my neck jump, just slightly.
His mouth twitched. Barely noticeable.
He knew.
“Have you ever encountered something you couldn’t explain rationally?”
“Yes,” I said after a pause. “Once.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to document it. But I couldn’t replicate it, so I filed it away as a subjective experience.”
“And if someone told you it wasn’t subjective?”
“I’d ask for evidence.”
The man’s steel-gray eyes narrowed slightly.
“You have a strong academic background. Curious, analytical. But also... impulsive.”
I stiffened.
My breath caught.
He didn’t press it. Just stood slowly and turned to a cabinet behind his desk.
“We will contact you once your file has been reviewed,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Miss Rhidian.”
I stood, nodded, and left without a word.
Only once I stepped back into the elevator did I let myself exhale.
What the hell kind of company was this?
Moments later…
The man watched the door close behind her.
She’d lied. Once. Small. Harmless. But her heartbeat had revealed everything.
And something else.
Something that didn’t belong.
He turned to the cabinet behind his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a folder identical to hers. Slipped it inside. Sealed it.
He walked across the room, opened a panel in the wall, and stepped into the quiet hum of a secure corridor.
He carried the file under one arm, his boots echoing against the steel floor.
“To the Beta,” he said into the receiver.
And vanished into the dark.
- Writer
