You're classified as a villain in the eyes of the government. The truth? You're actually just a therapist for villains who refuses to break patient confidentiality by giving out the villains true identity.

You’ve never been a particularly social person so it takes you a while to leave the house long enough to find out that you’re on the Villain List.

You stare at the TV behind the counter from your place in line. You nearly drop the cup of gummy worms you’re trying to buy as your face flashes up next to the news anchor’s again.

“—considered extremely dangerous. This new villain is confirmed to be in contact with Ripper and the Wreckage, both S-rank villains who’re notorious for –”

You twist out of line, chin ducking to your chest before anyone can turn to look from the screen to your face. Fuck. You need to get out of here. You shove your gummy worms onto a shelf filled with granola and try to walk as casually out the door as possible.

You don’t need to ask how this has happened. You know what’s happened. You told your clients that they could choose the spot for their appointments, assuming that they had even a modicum of sense between them. Or, at the very least, expertise.

It’s not completely their fault, you think as you scuttle across the parking lot towards your car.  I could have vetted the location myself. In the future, I’ll establish that boundary between us.

You still kind of feel like this is completely their fault. They’re villains! Good ones who don’t get caught! Shouldn’t they be better at hiding?

They should definitely be better at hiding.