The music was louder inside.

  Heat. Bodies. Light. Everything moved.

  A whirl of sweat-slick arms, open mouths, and basslines. Skin gleamed. Breath tangled with rhythm.

  In the shadows near the wall, a man in a dark athletic jacket sat still. There were cigarettes and a half-finished drink on his table.

  He didn't look up. Not when the dancers leaned close. Not when someone asked him to join.

  He didn't belong. He knew it. And he wanted them to feel it.

  He didn't move. The noise around him seemed to blur just short of touching him.

  Flicker. Somewhere near the ceiling, a panel pulsed once—then settled.

  Someone stumbled past—a woman in business clothes—covering her mouth as she rushed toward the restroom.

  The man stood. Picked up the cigarettes.

  Walked after her.

  Not fast. Not slow.

  Just enough to follow.

  She was bent over the sink when he entered—vomiting. Her hands shook as she splashed cold water on her face.

  The mirror trembled in its frame. A faint hum bloomed at the edges of the tiles.

  When she looked up, he was already behind her.

  "You—"

  That was all she managed.

  Two fingers. Firm. Her throat. No sound.

  She didn't scream.

  His other hand raised the knife.

  "I don't enjoy speeches," he said. "But the Index has rules. Justice failed you. We remember."

  The blade went in clean. Chest. Twist.

  She convulsed.

  He kept his palm on the wound—contained the spray.

  Her body didn't fall instantly. It hesitated—then gravity returned.

  When she stopped moving, he let her fall.

  Then washed the blade.

  His hands.

  He adjusted his collar in the mirror. The fabric sat flat. The fold obeyed.

  Everything done in order. Precisely.

  A pale face looked back at him—young, calm, slightly flushed. The eyes were still lit from the kill.

  Not joy. Not relief. Just the certainty—the kind that lives in silence, and ends in blood.

  The sensation was familiar. Warm. Addictive.

  He didn't smile. He didn't shift. The heat on his skin remained.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The corpse's eyes were still open.

  He took a small foil packet from his pocket—heroin.

  He didn't use it. It dulled the edge.

  Killing didn't.

  He tore the packet. Scattered the powder over her body.

  Each grain landed without direction. The floor didn't resist. The powder took up space like it belonged.

  Dropped the wrapper next to her hand.

  The club wasn't clean.

  He knew the owner wouldn't call the cops on a dead girl covered in drugs.

  Better to erase her than invite trouble.

  He looked at her one last time.

  This was heaven—because nothing followed.

  No consequence. No afterthought. Just quiet.

  Breathed in.

  Smoothed his jacket.

  He stepped back. The body was no longer part of the room. It had become the room's purpose.

  Concrete hummed beneath his shoes. The mirror no longer reflected her.

  Smiled—not forced, not pleasant. Just enough to feel normal again.

  Then he opened the door.

  Moved the cleaning sign aside.

  And left.

  Cold air hit his skin outside.

  He shivered.

  The air wasn't cold.

  It just lacked her heat.

  He missed it already.

  Not from guilt.

  Because the heat had left with her.

  That restroom—her body—was a kind of heaven.

  Not divine.

  Just pure.

  "Beautiful," he whispered to no one.

  Voice rough.

  He opened Velox. The screen flashed twice—then loaded.

  The city's fastest rideshare app, or so it claimed.

  Tonight, it arrived slower than judgment.

  But maybe he hadn't booked a ride—maybe he'd summoned a verdict.

  The phone rang.

  "Elias Vance? You're at the side entrance of Velvet East, right?"

  He frowned. His full name? Too much data exposed.

  Distance was good. Clean. Detached.

  Names made people visible. He had stayed hidden for a reason.

  "Yeah," he said.

  Pulled his hood up. Hid his face—except for his eyes.

  "On my way," said the driver.

  Ten minutes later.

  A low-slung black SableLine idled by the curb.

  The rear lights blinked like a warning, not a welcome.

  The driver looked about thirty. Tired. Crumbs on his shirt. A string of burned-out cigarette butts glowed under his seat.

  "Hop in," he said cheerfully.

  Elias nodded.

  Walked around. Sat in the front.

  "Passenger confirmed. Navigation starting," the car system said.

  The driver handed over a pack.

  "Smoke?"

  "I've got one," Elias replied, showing his own.

  "Take mine. It's fine."

  "I'm good."

  "C'mon. Just take it. Go on. Take it—take it—take it."

  His voice cracked slightly. The repetition scraped across the window.

  Elias stilled.

  Then reached for a cigarette.

  The driver relaxed once Elias lit the cigarette.

  They drove.

  A retro love song played—something soft, decades old.

  But halfway through—

  The music cracked.

  Static. Then—

  "Welcome to Signal Void. I'm your Curator. I don't have a name. Names don't matter here."

  The driver slapped the touchscreen.

  "What the hell? Stupid station."

  He tried to change it.

  Nothing responded.

  Taps. Swipes. Then hits. Still nothing.

  The display stayed locked.

  The screen flickered. Not like a glitch—more like a breath held too long.

  The system didn't freeze—it obeyed something else.

  Elias crushed the cigarette in his fingers.

  His other hand moved toward his pocket. Slowly.

  The blade was still there. Still warm.

  This man—his breathing wasn't normal. Not out of exertion.

  Out of panic.

  Elias recognized the look.

  He'd worn it himself.

  After the first kill.

  "Tonight's story is simple.

  A car. Two passengers.

  The driver: thirty-one. Works insurance by day. Drives nights for extra income.

  The passenger: a student. Age twenty-two.

  Innocent enough."

  The voice dropped.

  "But earlier, this driver hit a girl. Didn't stop. Didn't call anyone. Just drove. Until he picked up this ride."

  The driver froze.

  Eyes wide.

  Turned to Elias—slowly, like something might break.

  Elias saw it in his pupils: terror.

  No pretense left.

  Just raw, feral fear.

  "And the student? A killer.

  He needs to kill to feel whole again.He just did—at Velvet East. A woman who ran to the restroom, thinking she was alone.

  A chest wound. Left no trace, just a lie of heroin scattered over truth."

  The driver recoiled.

  Pressing himself against the door.

  Trying to become smaller.

  But Elias didn't move.

  Didn't speak.

  Didn't blink.

  Then—

  A sound.

  Something struck the windshield.

  Both looked up.

  She was there.

  Face crushed. Skin slipping.

  One eye still intact—staring.

  She smiled.

  A dumb, too-wide grin.

  Elias didn't flinch.

  But he turned.

  The air behind him broke. Something dragged across the seat.

  The woman was in the backseat now.

  The one from the restroom.

  Still bleeding.

  Still watching.

  He met her gaze.

  Her body was out of place, but her eyes had never left. He was part of her timeline now.

  And she smiled.

  As if waiting for him to finish the story.

  He blinked. But the frame didn't cut.

  Her eyes were still on him, even as the world started again.

  Somewhere, a sound reset.Something acidic clawed at the back of his throat.