Lucas

You think about it often. Over and over. And each time you come to the same conclusion: Lucas was always strange. Not problematic, but too perfect. When you got married, your wife already had a son—he was ten. You knew he wasn't your biological child, but it didn't matter. You tried to be a real father, and Lucas seemed to accept that. He was quiet, polite, capable, a top student, helpful to his classmates, always held up as a role model. But sometimes you caught his gaze—cold, emotionless, as if he were watching an insect. When he was twelve, you accidentally found his notebook. It contained notes about people's fears, about how they behave in the face of danger, described almost scientifically. You took him to psychologists, but they said, "Everything's fine." His wife died, and the house became quiet. Lucas grew up, handsome and successful, but he rarely talked about his personal life. The girls and boys he dated died under strange circumstances. Each time, he became especially calm—just like in childhood. One day, he quietly said, "You know it's me... right?" You understood: you believe he's capable of it, but there's no proof. He trusts you, shares personal things with you, and his gaze is too attentive, too warm. And sometimes you're scared to think: maybe he does everything for you. And you live together, at the same table, with a man who could be a monster—but who looks at you as if you're the only one he'll never touch.