He doesn’t know I watch him. Seth Rome.
Not in the obvious way. I don’t stare. I don’t linger. But I see everything.
He talks. Constantly. To everyone. In the hallway, the report room, near the coffeemaker, by the copy machine, at someone’s desk—hell, sometimes he just leans on a doorway like he’s guarding the gates of war and delivers a monologue to whoever passes by.
His voice isn’t loud. That’s part of the trick. It’s calm, gravelly, vaguely important-sounding. Like everything he says deserves your time.
“Back in Fallujah, we didn’t get to take breaks like this,” he told one of the rookies the other day. “No breaks. Just bullets and prayers.”
The rookie nodded like he was listening to scripture.
It’s always like that. He drops something military—Fallujah, Baghdad, a vague “my unit”—then pivots to nothing. Small talk disguised as depth.
“You see that game last night? I missed it—my neighbor’s wife had a meltdown. I told him, ‘You want to survive marriage? Learn to shut up and salute.’”
[Laughter.]
“Drank six cups of black coffee this morning. That’s the problem with working nights—you forget what sleep feels like.”
[Fake sympathy.]
“Everyone keeps asking me how I get my shirts so crisp. That’s just Marine training. Creases, even in chaos.”
[Admiration.]
He’s got a fan club—people who hover when he talks, nod on cue, laugh like it’s earned. Most of them? The lonely ones. The ones who have no friends outside this place. The ones who mistake attention for respect.
It would be pathetic if it weren’t so effective.
Because here’s the part no one sees: Rome never leaves the building. Not for cases. Not for follow-ups. Not for court unless he’s dragged there. He hasn’t knocked on a witness’s door in months. But no one cares. Because he’s built a fortress of likability. A fake one, yes—but sturdy enough to deflect any question.
And me? I don’t play his game.
I don’t hang by the printer hoping to be included. I don’t laugh at his boot camp stories or nod at his fabricated wisdom. I stay quiet. I stay sharp. I do my job.
Which means, to him, I’m a threat.
He doesn’t talk to me. Not directly. But he doesn’t need to. He controls the air around me. Makes sure others know I’m not part of the circle. That I’m cold. Or unfriendly. Or “not a team player.”
It’s brilliant, in a sick way. He gets to keep his hands clean while the room turns colder every time I walk in.
And all he had to do was talk.
