As I call her name into the empty room, I find myself calculating dates in my head. If we’d met earlier, on Valentine’s Day, would she have been as receptive to my darkness? Or was the timing perfect—the commercial holiday of manufactured romance safely in the past, leaving room for something authentic to take root between us? Not hearts and flowers, but blood and bruises. Our own savage valentine, arriving late but meaning so much more.
The bathroom door stands open, lights off. My apartment feels too quiet. I pull on a pair of black pants, not bothering with a shirt, and check the kitchen. Coffee pot untouched. Living room empty.
She must have gone downstairs to the club.
I take the private staircase down to the main floor of The Blue Room. The club is silent, with chairs stacked on tables and the stage empty.
A cold sensation spreads through my chest when I notice my office door ajar. I always keep it locked. Always.
Three strides and I’m at the threshold, frozen by what I see. Amelia sits rigidly in my leather chair; her fingers splayed across open folders—the Reynolds files. Crime scene photos. Preservation notes. Blood collection spreadsheets. My meticulous documentation spread before her like a confession.
Her face is drained of color, eyes wide with horror. Her hands that worshipped me last night now tremble against evidence of what I truly am.
“What is this?” Her voice breaks on the question, barely above a whisper.
My mind races through scenarios with clinical efficiency—denial, manipulation, partial truth, full confession. The cold calculation happens automatically while my body remains perfectly still. This moment was always a statistical possibility. I prepared for it, but not with her. Never with her.
I watch her eyes track from the photographs to my face, searching for something—a denial, perhaps, or signs of the monster she now knows me to be. The air between us feels charged with the weight of secrets crashing into daylight.
“You weren’t supposed to see this,” I manage, my voice eerily calm despite the fracturing of my carefully constructed world. One night of forgetting to lock the office door. One mistake after years of perfect discipline.
Her fingers curl against a photo of Reynolds on my preparation table. “These are... these are real people. You...”
I close the door with deliberate care, turning the lock with a soft click. The sound feels definitive in the tense silence between us.
Amelia’s eyes dart from the files to my face, searching for the man she thought she knew. Her breathing comes in shallow bursts, fear radiating from her in waves I can almost taste.
“These are dead people, Gabe. These are—” her hands flutter over the photos, the documentation, “—crime scenes?”
“Sit down.” The command flows naturally, my dominant tone automatic. The same voice that made her quiver with desire last night.
For the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t yield to my command. Her body tenses, defiance flickering across her face as she processes what she’s discovered. The sight fascinates me—this new resistance, this transformation happening before my eyes.
“Amelia. Please. Let me explain.” I soften my tone, though the request remains an order.
She sits, but her body remains rigid, perched on the edge of the chair, poised for flight. Every muscle in her frame screams self-preservation. I recognize prey behavior when I see it.
I run a hand through my hair. The routine gives me precious seconds to calculate my approach. Denial would insult her intelligence. Manipulation might work temporarily, but she’s seen too much.
I decide on honesty—partial, controlled, but more truth than I’ve ever given anyone outside of Adrian and Maya.
“I kill people,” I say simply. “Specific people. Bad people. And I preserve them in artistic ways, as reminders of their corruption.”
The words hang between us like smoke in still air. I watch her process this information.
Amelia’s face transforms rapidly—disbelief washing into horror, then a flicker of fascination before settling into naked fear. Her expressions shift so quickly it’s like watching lightning dance across a night sky. Every emotion raw, unfiltered.
“You’re a murderer.” She says it flatly; the words stripped of question.
“Yes.” No point denying what she already knows.
She stares at me, fingers digging into her thighs. “And you... preserve them? Like taxidermy?”
“More like mummification. Ancient Egyptian techniques, mostly.” I gesture toward the detailed notes on my desk. “It’s an art form.”
Her laugh cracks through the air, slightly hysterical. “An art form. You kill people and call it art.”
“I kill predators. Abusers. Corrupt politicians and businessmen who destroy lives. People who deserve it.” I move closer, each step carefully measured, watching for signs she might bolt. “Everything I’ve done has been justice, Amelia. Taking out cancer before it spreads.”
