“You see, my friend here needs your blood.” I run my finger along Reynolds’ arm, feeling his pulse hammering beneath the skin. “But me? I need your understanding.”
I bring my face close to his, inhaling the scent of his fear. “Do you know what the ancient Egyptians believed? That judgment awaits after death. That your heart would be weighed against a feather of truth.”
Adrian moves behind me, laying out collection tubes and labels with the same care he applies to his chocolate molds.
“Too bad this is the only judgment you’ll get.” I grab Reynolds’ jaw, forcing him to look at the photos of the families he destroyed. “Look at their faces. The people who slept under bridges because of your signature. The kid who lost her father because you wanted another vacation home.”
I release him, a grin spreading across my face. My fingers find the first blade—a beautiful obsidian scalpel, its edge catching the light.
“Not so much blood this time,” Adrian cautions,positioning collection containers. “The Valentine’s truffles need a particular viscosity.”
“Artists compromising for artists.” I wink at Reynolds, whose eyes widen further.
The first cut is always an indulgence, a red line revealing the fragility beneath men who think they’re untouchable. I work in frenzied bursts, a conductor drawing crimson music from unwilling instruments.
“You’ll make a handsome addition to my collection.” I run bloodied hands through Reynolds’ hair, styling it as his life drains into Adrian’s containers. “I’m thinking northeast corner, beside the judge. Poetic, don’t you think?”
Adrian works silently behind me, filling vials and marking them while I begin applying the first preservative compounds. The chemicals will take weeks to transform the tissue fully, but certain processes must begin immediately.
“The ancient Egyptians removed organs, preserved them separately in canopic jars,” I tell Reynolds as his eyes begin to cloud. “I extract them too, but mine are filled with cedar oil and herbs before being returned to the cavity. The whole corrupt package, preserved for eternity.”
I’m already envisioning him displayed—another warning statue in my underground gallery. Perhaps standing upright, one hand extended as if reaching for a bribe that will never come.
“What do you think, Adrian? Should he hold the evidence folder in the display?”
Adrian considers my question, tilting his head as he seals another vial with Reynolds’ blood.
“Perhaps folded in his breast pocket. Corrupt heart, corrupt evidence.” He carefully labels the final container. “Poetry in presentation.”
I nod,appreciating his artistic sensibility. While Adrian transforms blood into chocolate, my artistry flows through multiple mediums—the jazz that fills my club, the piano melodies that pour from my fingers, and ultimately, flesh and bone transformed and preserved. Each corpse becomes a composition, displayed as warnings that no one but us will ever see. There’s beauty in that privacy, a symphony of justice only we can appreciate.
Reynolds’ eyes flicker, fighting to stay open as his blood fills Adrian’s containers. His consciousness hangs by a thread, but I know he can still hear me. I lean close to his ear, my voice soft.
“Your legacy won’t be the buildings with your name. It won’t be the policies you championed or the handshakes with mayors. It will be this—becoming part of something honest for once.”
The councilman’s chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. Between the blood loss and the preservation fluids seeping through his system, the darkness will claim him soon. The extraction will finish what we started—the final notes in this particular composition of justice.
I step back and move to the industrial sink to wash my hands. The rhythmic scrubbing calms me as the water runs from red to pink to clear. A ritual of transition.
“I’ll need about three hours to complete the initial preservation,” I tell Adrian. “You’re welcome to stay, but I know you’re eager to begin your work.”
Adrian carefully packs his collection of vials into a temperature-controlled case. “Valentine’s Day waits for no one. Especially not chocolatiers with demanding clientele.”
When he leaves, I’m alone with Reynolds and my thoughts. I adjust the lighting, positioning the body exactly as I want it preserved. My fingers applycompounds that will maintain his features in perfect stasis.
Sometimes I wonder what pulled me toward preservation while Adrian chose consumption. Both of us transform death into art, but in such different ways. He incorporates his victims into creations meant to be devoured—temporary pleasures dissolving on the tongue. I make mine eternal.
Is that why I’ve started to keep them? Three bodies are displayed beneath my club, with Reynolds soon to join them. A growing collection that whispers to me in the quiet hours when the club is empty. Sometimes I think I should stop at four—a neat quartet of corruption. But the truth is, I’m no longer sure I can.
4
AMELIA
Iknock on Maya’s office door, my portfolio case heavy on my shoulder, and my stomach growling loud enough to be heard inside, probably. The winter wind whipped my hair into a disaster on the walk over, and I can feel paint flecks still stuck under my nails despite scrubbing them three times this morning.
“Ready for lunch? I’m starving.”
Maya stares at her laptop like it personally offended her, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then she does this decisive little movement—shoulders back, chin up—and hits a key with more force than necessary. The laptop snaps shut.
