Sally's POV
"Is this a video of me last night?"
I stared at the screen, stunned.
The woman looked exactly like me—same voice, same expressions—but what she said was impossible.
My stomach dropped.
I hadn't stepped into a church in over ten years, but for the first time in forever, I found myself praying.
Not that I expected anything. God, like cowboys in old Westerns, tends to show up late—or not at all—for someone like me.
"Why does Petunia get to meet a bunch of harmless nerds," I muttered, "and I end up with you? This kind of…"
I trailed off, unable to summon the right word, shaking my head in frustration.
Christian didn't even blink. "What is this?" he asked, voice flat, uninterested in my indignation.
"If we're talking in movie terms," I said, folding my arms, "this feels more like Ghostbusters, right? Paranormal crap, creepy recordings. Should be a dream for someone who actually acts for a living."
Christian gave a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes.
"Cool to live out a movie plot, huh?"
"Cool?" I snapped.
"I've got goosebumps in places I didn't know I had. If we're picking a movie comparison, I'd go with Children of the Corn. Way more fitting."
He raised an eyebrow. "The Stephen King one?"
"You know it?"
That caught me off guard. Most people don't even remember that film unless they're horror nerds.
It was based on a King story, sure, but nowhere near as iconic as Carrie. I only knew it because I once auditioned for Children of the Corn 3.
Never heard back, of course. It was a minor role anyway.
Doesn't matter now—not with everything going to hell around me.
"Funny thing," I murmured, more to myself than to him, "in most horror flicks, guns are useless until the final act. If they work at all."
Christian—tousled blonde hair, coat smelling faintly of ash and whiskey—shrugged.
"They're great for friendly fire. Or taking yourself out when things get too real."
I looked at him.
"The Second Amendment: so you can legally off your family before turning the gun on yourself. America's favorite horror trope."
He gave a dark chuckle. I didn't.
Still, he wasn't wrong. Guns never seem to matter when the real terror starts.
I remembered the weight of the pistol in my hand earlier—how my fingers trembled despite every self-defense class, every promise I made to myself and my mother.
In that moment, I wasn't strong. I was terrified.
'Do it, Sally,' I told myself. The man in front of you lied.
He did what you swore you'd never forgive. Didn't you promise to protect yourself?
Didn't you say you'd never be a victim again?
My finger brushed the trigger. Just a little pressure, and it would all be over.
But it felt like the gun weighed a hundred pounds.
"I get it," Christian said quietly, pulling me out of my thoughts.
His voice was calm, like he'd seen this play out a hundred times before.
Maybe he had. "You're angry. And scared. But things aren't what you think."
And somehow, that made it worse.
"Do you even believe yourself?" I shot back, voice tight.
Christian didn't flinch. "Believe it or not, if that wasn't you last night... don't you feel something?"
I hesitated. "This…"
I was still in my underwear when I woke up—no signs of a struggle, no bruises, no gaps I couldn't account for.
Just a strange, uneasy stillness. My body didn't feel violated, but my mind refused to settle.
Then he said it.
"I'll admit this much," Christian said, like he was commenting on the weather.
"You weren't just drunk. I slipped you something."
My stomach flipped.
"It's called hymenone. A hypnotic, technically. Supposed to heighten... susceptibility. If used right."
He leaned back, nonchalant.
"Not sure how much of that's true."
"You—" My hand clenched around the pistol, finger brushing the trigger.
Everything in me screamed to end this now.
But he just sat there. No fear. Like he knew I wouldn't do it.
He kept talking. "I did it for a reason. You remember what I said when we met at the hospital?"
"You mean the ghost crap?"
"It's not crap," he said.
"It's the truth."
"What?" I blinked.
It sounded absurd. All of this did.
"Even if this tape is real," I said slowly, "I'm not sure I believe you. I don't know if I can trust you. So how did you even get this?"
"It's yours. Borrowed it."
"Seriously?" I stared.
"I bought that thing to film acting practice. A pro said it helps. I tried. But all it did was show me how robotic I was. No timing, no flow. Just... cringe. It became wall art, basically."
I was going to sell it to make rent, but I couldn't even remember where I left it.
My place had a habit of swallowing things.
"You were puking your guts out last night," Christian said with that infuriating half-grin.
"I looked for something clean to put on you. Found the tape buried under a pile of laundry. Can't say your closet matches the myths I've heard about women's organization."
"Wow. Thanks for the commentary," I muttered, cheeks burning.
"Ever consider that women are human and humans are messy?"
"Oh, I don't judge," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"You should see my friend Petunia's place. Looks like a haunted IKEA showroom."
"Alright, alright, you win. Sally: Queen of Deflection. Can we get back to the whole videotape-of-me-on-a-drugged-night thing?"
He nodded. "I found the tape. Figured you deserved to see it."
"And if you hadn't found it?" I asked.
"What was Plan B?"
Christian tilted his head, considering.
"Originally?"
"Never mind," I muttered. No answer was probably better than the one he was thinking.
"So," I said, pulling the conversation back on track, "what's your plan now?"
He smiled. Not the friendly kind.
The kind a wolf gives right before it pounces.
"Simple," he said.
"You pay me."