Page 58 of Craving Venom

“Yeah, and considering how dumb you are, it’s a miracle you have me.” She shoves them into my hand. “Drink up, bitch.”

I roll my eyes but do as she says, swallowing the pills dry before chugging the water.

“Atta girl,” she coos. “Now get dressed. You have twenty minutes to look like a functioning human being.”

“Fuck off.”

“You love me.”

I scowl. “Debatable.”

She laughs, throwing a pillow at my face before skipping out of the room.

The records archive is colder than I expected.

Not just in temperature, though the air-conditioning is blasting like they’re trying to preservepeopleinstead of paper, but in the whole vibe of the place. The walls are dull, the lights too white, and everything smells faintly of old paper and something vaguely chemical.

The place is dead quiet, but there’s movement. A few people sit at tables, hunched over old files, some flipping through pages, others typing on laptops. The fluorescent lights hum above me, and my boots echo too loud against the tile as I make my way to the front desk.

There’s a blonde woman sitting behind it, scrolling through her phone as though she wants someone to give her an excuse to be an asshole. Beside her, a wiry-looking man taps away at a keyboard, his glasses slipping down his nose. Neither of them look like they want to deal with me.

I stop in front of the desk and clear my throat. “Hey. I need access to case records from the last decade.”

Blondie barely looks up. “What kind of cases?”

“Prison files. Any arrests, trials, sentencing records.” I pull out the document Dr. Harrington signed, along with my college ID. “I have authorization.”

She finally looks at me, eyes flicking over the papers in my hand. Then, she sighs so dramatically I almost expect her to roll her eyes, but she just takes the document and barely skims it before handing it back.

Blondie barely suppresses a groan as she reaches under the desk and pulls out a thick stack of paper. She slaps it down in front of me with all the enthusiasm of someone working a dead-end job.

“Fill this out,” she says, pushing a pen toward me.

I glance down at the form. It’s at least four pages long, dense with legal jargon and bureaucratic bullshit.

“This is just for access?” I ask, raising a brow.

She shrugs. “Yes, it’s a standard procedure. You need to describe your research purpose, sign the non-disclosure agreement, and agree not to remove or damage any files. Also, no photography unless explicitly permitted.”

I pick up the pen, scanning through the form.

Research Purpose:I scribble down something formal.Analysis of legal procedures and sentencing trends over the last decade.

Institutional Affiliation:I fill in my college and professor’s name.

Duration of Research:I have no fucking clue, so I estimate a month.

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