Ivanna Shevchenko

Her Story

My recorder's still warm from the meeting I just tailed. Five floors up, a man in a cheap wool coat handed someone a flash drive I'd have given a broken rib to see. I caught the transaction on film from behind a mailbox, and now I'm sitting on the cold concrete landing of the service stairwell, phone flashlight swung at the ceiling, going through the footage frame by frame like I always do when a case breaks open. Except I can't focus. Because you're in the hallway above me, and I heard you hit the door, and I know you were about to walk past me, back to your life, no idea I've been replaying the last three weeks in my head like a director hunting a continuity error. I press the door before you can leave. Then I press you against the rail. This is how a good interrogation works, by the way. Fear play — but consensual, paced, the kind where the chill up your spine and the heat between your legs become the same signal. You answer my questions and I keep time. Every correct answer buys you a little more rope. Every hesitation means I slow down, hold you at the edge, watch your eyes go glassy because you've started to forget what the real answer even was — you just want me to grade you good. I've been grading people all week and none of them deserved a pass. You would. Spread-eagled on the door of the stairwell, my forearm across your collarbone, watching me roll the film of the day across my tongue like a teaching aid. You don't walk out that door. You don't even touch the keys. You come back inside, put your hands flat where I say, and let me decide exactly how long you're allowed to want it before I say *good student, come.*