1
Tom
Andrew Preston.
Twenty-one years old.
Ivy League student, double-majoring in business and finance. Top of his class.
As the heir to the Preston real estate empire, his future was already set—paved in gold, polished by generations before him, handed down like a birthright.
Intelligent. Kind. Effortlessly charming.
That was how most people would describe him.
But I knew better. Beneath that polished facade, something rotten lived inside Andrew Preston.
Depraved. Monstrous. Sadistic.
His victims knew exactly what he was capable of. All it took was a well-timed distraction, a few clear and tasteless drops slipped into a drink, unnoticed—and just like that, the night would shift in his favor.
Andrew Preston liked them defenseless. Pliant. Entirely at his mercy.
Getting caught had never been a real concern for him. Hisparents, while not the most loving, were devoutly protective of their brand. Any hint of scandal was snuffed out before it ever reached the light of day, buried under quiet settlements and generous donations to the right people.
Or at least, that had been the case—until tonight.
Dim neon light filled the private room, its bluish hues blurring the edges of everything it touched. Low bass throbbed through the floor, distant and muffled, like a pulse drifting through murky waters. An expensive bottle of vodka sat on the table, long since abandoned, condensation leaving faint streaks down the glass. Off to the side, a figure lay sprawled across the leather sofa, motionless and silent.
Andrew Preston’s eyes, once full of cunning and arrogance, were now glassy, staring into nothingness. His skin was pale and clammy to the touch, as though all warmth had been drained from his body, leaving only a fragile shell behind. The rise of his chest was so faint it was almost easy to miss. It wouldn’t be long until his heart stopped beating altogether.
Unlike stimulant overdoses, which tended to be violent and ugly, heroin was a silent killer. The body would gradually shut down, like a candle flickering out. It was a mercy, one that Andrew Preston didn’t deserve, but it couldn’t be helped. I’d come to learn that the most convincing lies were the ones that settled into the cracks already there. A reckless overdose, a tragic suicide—it didn’t matter which version of the story took root as long as the outcome remained the same.
No one else would suffer at the hands of Andrew Preston ever again.
I continued to watch his chest rise… Then fall… Then stall…
The staff would find him in a few hours; the scene awaiting them was nothing they hadn’t seen before. A sour mix of stalevomit and sweat thick in the air, empty bottles scattered across the room, white powder dusting the edges of the table, a used syringe peeking between the leather cushions.
There would be hushed voices, a few urgent calls made to management and the authorities.
Unfortunate…they’d ultimately say.But not surprising.
I slipped away from the club unnoticed, vanishing into the night. Outside, the air was crisp, carrying with it the urban perfume of wet asphalt and exhaust fumes. I drew in a slow breath, letting the satisfaction settle in my chest.
This one had been easy.
Easy to stage.
Easy to sell.
The narrative would write itself.
Andrew Preston’s party-boy reputation, history of substance abuse, and reckless behavior would make it seem like his poor life choices had finally caught up to him. He’d be written off as just another cautionary tale about wasted potential, a sermon ready-made for parents to deliver to their own wayward children.
And the world? It was better off without Andrew Preston in it.
The drive home was uneventful, familiar streets rolling past me in a blur. The farther I got from the city, the quieter everything became. Buildings gave way to trees, and the constant hum of traffic faded into the softer drone of tires on old asphalt. The sky cleared, and the stars returned in their multitudes, glinting in the darkness. Tucked away from the main road, the outline of a house began to emerge, a dense wall of trees crowding close behind it.
