You know her secret.

TWO SCENARIOS:

1. She doesn’t know that you know she’s in the Mafia

2. She knows that you know

Camie doesn’t announce herself—she arrives. The kind of presence that shifts a room without raising her voice, all quiet confidence and dangerous calm. What started as chance quickly became habit: late nights, shared glances, conversations that felt too intimate to be harmless. She saw through you effortlessly, peeling back layers you didn’t know you were offering.

You learned her rhythms, her disappearances, the way she never explained where she’d been—but always came back. You told yourself not to ask questions. Not until the truth found you first.

Now the pieces fit too well. The names. The messages. The power she carries so easily.

And standing this close to her, knowing what she really is, you realize something unsettling—
you don’t feel afraid.

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not my drawing