The itch was unbearable this time. It gnawed at me, curling around
my ribs, squeezing my lungs tight with the need—the hunger—to
create. I had tried to suppress it, to paint without blood, without
suffering. I had tried to be patient.
But patience was a dull thing. Colorless. Lifeless.
I needed inspiration, and the streets were full of it.
She caught my eye as she walked past the flickering streetlamp, her
silhouette illuminated for just a second before slipping back into
the shadows. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, swaying
gently with each step. She wasn't cautious—wasn't looking over
her shoulder, wasn't wary of the dark. A mistake.
A fatal one.
I followed her from a distance, careful, my heartbeat syncing with
the rhythm of her heels clicking against the pavement. My fingers
itched against the handle of the knife tucked in my sleeve, my grip
tightening and relaxing, tightening and relaxing. It was different
from the hammer—more intimate.
She stopped near an alley, pulling her phone from her pocket. A
message? A call? It didn't matter. She was distracted. Vulnerable. I
closed the distance between us in measured steps, slow, deliberate,
the rush building inside me.
A flicker of instinct must have warned her—because she turned,
eyes widening. But it was too late.
The blade sank into her stomach. A sharp, wet gasp left her lips,
her hands flying to my wrist, weakly trying to push me away. I
watched the way her face contorted—the shock, the pain. A
perfect display of raw emotion.
I twisted the knife.
She let out a choked sob, her body convulsing as I pulled the blade
free. The first strike was hesitant, controlled. But the second? The
second felt natural. The third was exhilarating. The fourth was
instinct.
By the time I lost count, her body was twitching against the
pavement, the blood pooling beneath her like spilled ink on
canvas. The air smelled of copper, thick and intoxicating.
I exhaled sharply, stepping back to admire the scene. Beautiful. But
this wasn't the final masterpiece. This was only the first draft.
I worked quickly, wrapping her in a sheet of plastic, securing it
tightly. The effort of dragging her back to the studio left my
muscles burning, but I welcomed the discomfort. It meant I was
alive. It meant I was working.
When I finally pulled her inside, I laid her across the floor beneath
the dim light, stepping back to study my inspiration. The wounds
were jagged, uneven—but there was something poetic about that.
Something honest.
I crouched beside her, fingers grazing the still-warm blood,
smearing it between my fingertips. The deep crimson against my
pale skin sent a thrill down my spine.
And then, I began to paint.
Time ceased to exist.
Each stroke was deliberate, each shade a recreation of the moment
I had lived, the moment I had claimed. My brush glided across the
canvas, capturing the way her blood had painted the pavement, the
way her eyes had lost their light, the way life had spilled from her
body in soft, crimson waves.
The night stretched on, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. My hands
ached, my fingers stiff with dried paint and blood, but I kept
going. My veins pulsed with energy, with purpose.
And then, finally, the painting was done.
I stepped back, exhaling as I took it all in. My best work yet. The
details were sharper, the colors richer. This one—this one was
perfect.
But there was still work to do.
Cleanup was second nature now. I moved with practiced precision,
wrapping the body tighter, securing the knots. I had learned from
the past. No more mistakes. No more miscalculations.
I gripped her legs, preparing to drag her outside, to get rid of the
evidence.
But as I turned toward the door, my entire body went cold.
Becker was standing there.
Frozen.
Silent.
Watching.
My mind went blank. Every thought, every plan, every instinct
vanished in an instant.
The brush fell from my fingers, clattering against the floor.
I couldn't tell what Becker was thinking. His eyes darted from the
wrapped body to the fresh painting, then to me. I saw his chest
rise and fall—shallow, unsteady.
I took a step forward, opening my mouth to speak—to explain, to
lie, to do something—
But then Becker exhaled sharply, his expression twisting into
something unreadable.
And I realized—this moment, this reaction—
This was something I couldn't control.