The creeping darkness gazed between the pale light of the moon, a fatal radiance which cast long, false shadows on the bloody butcherings it left behind. This was Mina Ostrohaya, his name whispered in terror, for he was master of this black scene. Little more than a boy of sixteen, this faceless figure became a messenger of fear. He was a child, yes, but one who had left men without a home, homeless in a world already grown up on their rejection. His looks were sharp, a pale, almost otherworldly pallor that spoke of an Asian heritage, the blood of some unknown family dumped onto the cruel streets. This very skin, the whitest of snows, was so contrasted with his eyes, dark and black as a night, almond-shaped and perfect, the frame of features that were neither fully masculine nor fully adolescent, a strong blend of both.
But for all his youth, a sinister smile flirted at his lips today, his anniversary, a black milestone marked by brutality. His scrawny arms had embraced the dead body of his victim, a dirty bank owner who had profited at other people's expense. His wide wound was covered by one of Mina's hands, which remained quiet to his lethal precision, and the other hand grasped a knife. The knife, made of the finest steel, had moved with the speed and ease of liquid lightning, slicing through the man's artery, adorning the rich walls with a foul splash of scarlet rather than leaving any visible marks. Mina, the night specter, was silent, only his infamous signature – the utter stillness of death. The body he clutched slumped further in his arms, its final spasms a macabre dance under the pitiless pressure of his arms. The eyes of the dead man remained wide open, frozen in a silent scream, his breathing ceased, his chaotically beating heart finally weakening to the inevitable stillness of the end of life, expiring a few moments after Mina's deadly embrace.
With astonishingly gentle care, Mina carried the lifeless body into the opulent room. A woman, the assumed widow of the deceased, slept on a plush velvet couch unaware of the horrors that would shortly shatter her world. The room itself reeked of gold and excess, filled with fresh seashells adorned with elaborate designs of food and glittering gold. Her carvings of delicate flowers and starry skies overran the walls, and the low, carefully planned lighting sent an uncanny play of shadow, Mina's face merging with the shadows that adhered to the room's farthest corners.
"Matthew, is that you?" the woman inquired, her voice heavy with a trace of sleep. She moved, her form coalescing out of the shadows as she crept down the hall, her senses still foggy with sleep. Her eyes widened in amazement and mounting horror as she absorbed the rigid form of Matthew stretched out just inside the door, illuminated by the ghastly moonlight streaming in through an open window nearby. A gasping moan was muffled behind her lips; she strained to scream, to shatter the silence with horror, but before it could become born, there was a lightning flash of sparkle that filled the air, which seized the wan light. An unseen, cutting force struck at her, and she stiffened, a reddish blot blooming on her chest, a salt-sweet tang of iron blood filling her mouth. Her eyes glazed, mirroring the dead look of her husband, and she fell to the floor, her descent a soft thud on the expensive Persian rug, another victim claimed by the silent, creeping darkness and the boy who moved in its shadow. The anniversary had claimed another life, another soul extinguished in the flash of an eye, leaving Mina Ostrohayang alone once more with his dark work.
The large house loomed in somber splendor, each object of furniture a silent witness to lost melodrama. Mina glided through the rooms as a specter, his gaze fixating upon the numerous canvases lining the walls. There, frozen by brushstrokes, lay Matthew's art. A contemptuous snort erupted from Mina's mouth, contorting into a sarcastic laugh that echoed through the silence. Then, a wild scream, grating and scraping. He poked a quivering finger at himself, the unspoken accusation hanging in the air. "Nonsense!" he spat, the word venomous in tone. "The pauper's son, decked out in the finery of a prosperous marriage. Ha! What a cruel joke of fate! To live off the wife, to die a bloody death at the hands of a…" The last words hung there, thick with unspoken spite.
He moved with a fiendish effectiveness, a predator homeward bound. The documents he had arrived to collect were soon in his possession, their tearing a sickening accompaniment to the silence. Descending the curving stairway, he pulled Matthew's body, a dead weight on his strength. The garden, usually a scene of rich life, was now a background for a dismal scene. With a vicious heave, he threw Matthew onto the riverbanks of mud, the splash a last, watery gasp. And then, facing about with a cold determination, he retrieved his wife's body and once more repeated the act, her fall a silent echo of that of her husband.
Inside again, the transformation began. Mina was a meticulous cleaner, a scene surgeon. Fumes of bleach filled the air, combining with the metallic aroma of what once was. Water dripped, diluting the crimson stains on the floorboards, the delicate designs of the wallpaper. He washed out all traces, all suggestions of bloodshed, until the house seemed peaceful, serene again.
And then, the pièce de résistance. A note, penned in a dainty, feminine hand – an imitation of his wife's handwriting. A dismissal of the maid, a fabricated crisis over an unplanned departure. The words danced across the page, a wicked deceit masking an abhorrent reality. He placed it where it would be easily found, a breadcrumb path to a fictitious tale.
With a last, lingering look about the now spartan rooms, Mina closed the massive door. He extinguished all the lights, enveloping the opulent house in an eerie darkness. He fled into the alley, its blackness devouring him.
It was May, the world awakening in a riot of color blossoms. But this year was different. A lingering cold from a cruel winter and a half-hearted spring had kept nature's grand pageant at bay. And now, at last, the first flowers opened, their white petals dancing in the cool night air like snow. Mina paused, a moment of thankfulness for this fragile beauty, before the rising murmur of voices brought him back to the hard world he had made.
He cast his eyes downward, his gaze falling on the jagged stones and clumps of mud at his feet. Drawing his cloak around him, he vanished into the alleyway darkness, re-emerging on the main street.
The busy high street teemed with life, the complete opposite of what he had seen before leaving behind death. Vibrant flowers in every conceivable color filled each corner, celebrating the annual May carnival, which reached its climax on the 30th when the flower-adorned image of the King had been lovingly prepared by his mother. Laughter and singing issued from wide-open portals, the aroma of food thick in the air and the joyous voices of the multitudes above it. But Mina remained an island of grim intent, his head down, his pace unbroken. He moved at a steady rhythm, each step carrying him deeper into the anonymity of the masses.
He became ghost in the celebratory crowd, a shadow no one observed, a face unseen. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, a self-imposed exile from the joyous spectacle that surrounded him. He was a predator passing through the oblivious herd.
Finally, he descended into the lower streets, the carnival's infectious energy gone as he approached the neighborhood of the poor. A palpable gloom hung in the air, a crushing shroud of despair. There, the laughter sounds were overcome by coughs and hushed whispers. Mina finally looked up, his eyes taking in the view of poverty. Illness hung in the air, and poverty lined every face, every dilapidated building.
He passed by slumped figures on the street, their lives appearing to wither away with each breath. Tavern windows, with their flashing lights, threw drunken, elongated shadows, the places where the desperate went to lose themselves in cheap wine, spending their meager wages.
Mina stopped in front of one such spot, the door surrounded by a haze of stale tobacco and beer. He slid in, moving with a smooth motion towards the dimly lit bar, a figure detaching itself from the larger darkness.
He moved toward the chief bartender, a burly man with bloodshot eyes. "My order," Mina said, his voice low and without inflection.
The bartender's reaction was immediate and primitive. His eyes snapped wide, his breath hitched in the rear of his throat as if an invisible fist had punched it shut. He stood there for a moment, locked, a statue carved of shock. Then a strangled yell burst from his lips, a combination of a gasp and muffled scream. "Yoshua!" he croaked, his own voice booming through his frame. "Attend to this man's wish."
A second bartender emerged from the shadows, one who was younger, with a mass of dark, curly hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He carried a sack of what appeared to be fine canvas. A scented steam billowed out of it, smelling of rich, meaty broth and a stew so heavenly scented that it seemed to overcome the grime of the environment.
The younger man moved the bag quietly over to Mina, and she accepted it quietly, for nothing, and began to depart. The first bartender released a deep, shaking breath, his thumping heart slowly returning to its usual rate.
As she came in, a young woman entered the bar, her gaze locking onto the momentary glimpse of Mina slipping into the darkness of the poverty-stricken alley. "Who was that, Father?" she asked, furrowing her brow with interest.
The older bartender waved his hand dismissively. "Nobody. Nobody you should trouble your mind with. A… peculiar sort."
The younger bartender, Yoshua, came over, wiping his hands on his apron. "Actually," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "that man is an extremely regular customer here. We don't know his family, not even his name. But we do know his… occupation."
The young woman's eyes widened. "That occupation? What does that mean, Father?"
The older bartender let out a sigh, his eyes easing a fraction as he gazed at his daughter. "You are too young to be concerned with such matters. Now, go clean the toilets, please."
She let out a small, disgusted sigh but grabbed a mop and bucket, dutifully heading to the back of the tavern.
In the meantime, Mina continued on his way, the perfumed bag tightly clasped in his hand, until he reached a line of dilapidated flats. He ascended to the second floor, the gloom clinging to him like a second skin.