Chapter Text
The first time you killed somebody, it was curiosity. The next time, it was art. Now, as you feel the blood dripping off your knife, you think about how the scene would read on paper—if anyone would ever understand the beauty of such a complete ending.
The victim wasn’t important—merely a corrupt city official of some sort. What mattered was that he had never seen justice; his ending was missing, a loose thread that you felt obligated to tie up. Besides, he wasn't really a victim, he was a character. And every character deserves an ending befitting the place they held in the story.
Your preparation was exquisite, every detail planned and executed perfectly. The soft candle light and classical music in the background ensured that his ending would be beautiful and elegant. Your silky-white gloves shimmered in the dim light, casting pretty reflections and shadows in the engraved silver handle of your dagger.
You slowly approached the man lying motionless in the center of the room. As you walked, you admired the scene. Everything was set perfectly. He lay paralyzed, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest—and the rising panic in his eyes betraying that he was still, just barely, alive.
It had really been too easy. A few right glances, a soft smile and he thought it was fate. Now, in the silence of his own study, the only remnants of that charm were the soft lights glinting off the two glasses of wine on the table—one still untouched. He never questioned it, never realized the calculated distance you kept. Of course, it was too late now. He was about to die surrounded by all these books that could never tell him how his story would end.
Crouching next to his still body, you let yourself indulge in the quiet, savoring the stillness before the inevitable, watching the shallow breaths rise and fall.
“It’s so beautiful isn’t it? How life can be so easily stopped. How delicate humans are, like a fragile story waiting to be written. And yet, all those years of living, those tiny moments of glory, those mistakes, all of them fading into the vast abyss of time and space. No more chapters. No more drama. Just the end. It’s the final truth, really. A story’s perfect ending. No more masks or pretending. Just truth. And I am the one who gets to write it.”
His eyes widened as he tried and failed to get away. To deny his inevitable fate.
“Shh… Don’t struggle… Every story has its end. This is simply yours.”
The cold metal of the dagger was familiar in your hand as you lifted it. You didn’t hesitate.
With one fluid movement, you drove the blade into his chest, the sharp point sliding under his ribs with a sickening, wet sound. There was a brief moment of resistance before it gave way, the steel sinking deeper, pulling the breath from his lungs.
His body jerked with a soft gasp, but you held him steady, like partners in a dance. Only this dance was silent and final. A deep shudder ran through his muscles, a sharp exhale as the shock hit him—a dying rhythm, faltering in your arms.
The warmth of the blood oozed over your hands, staining your gloves. And just like that, it was done. One single strike. There was no need for fancy flourishes, no unnecessary moves—just the certainty of an ending.
His death was quick and as his final breath left his lungs, you felt his story settle into place. Done. Clean. Right.
You breathe in deeply, letting yourself feel the satisfaction that always comes from a kill. There’s no guilt. Just a quiet peace from the knowledge that this story has been given the beautiful ending it deserves.
You carefully wipe down your blade, ensuring no trace of imperfection is left behind before tucking it away. Then, you float around the room, restoring it to its previous condition, as if nothing had ever happened. The only trace left is the cold weight of the body—the only testament to your work and the ending you so delicately wove.
Once every trace has been erased, you return to the body. Slowly, you press a dried amaranth atop his chest, a folded piece of cream paper tucked beneath its stem.
Azrael
Written in calligraphy—blood-red and pristine.
With a final glance around the scene, you turn and move towards the door, your footsteps quiet. Your movement is graceful, with the ease of someone who has done this countless of times, leaving behind nothing but the faint echo of a life erased. Then, the moment swings shut behind you and the world outside awaits.
As you step into the cold night air of the street, the city stretches out ahead. You blend into the shadows, an anonymous figure, your presence swallowed by the darkness. No one will ever know the truth of what happened tonight. No one will find your footsteps, your fingerprints, your real name.
You’d learned long ago: the world doesn’t correct itself. It has to be rewritten. Justice never falls from the sky—it rots in the hands of the powerful, unearned and untouched. You’ve seen it happen over and over again. An injustice buried. A lie rewarded. A monster left free to smile and prowl in the light. It used to bother you. Now it just makes sense.
Someone has to write the ending.
So you do.
V sits in the corner of a quaint cafe. The afternoon sunlight streams warmly through the windows while the sounds of the city outside create a low murmur. The low clink of coffee cups and muted hum of conversation blend together with the soft piano music playing overhead, but he doesn’t pay it any mind.
A cup of tea sits before him, the steam softly curling up into the air, spreading the delicate aroma around him. His fingers absently trace the rim of the cup, his thoughts swirling with the case he’s working on. His notebook lies open in front of him, filled with his neat notes and scattered thoughts.
The case that he’s been working on for weeks—the one he thought would be the basis for his next book—sits half-finished before him. A shady company. A missing whistleblower. A convenient overdose. All the usual bones for a good narrative. But lately, it’s felt boring. Predictable. No revelation worth following.
He’s tried so many times—tried to find the magical twist that will breathe life into the piece. But nothing holds. All the words feel dull. Like they’ve already been placed too many times. And maybe they have.
His eyes flick over the other cafe patrons, not necessarily out of interest, but because it’s a habit. His mind scans over them, subconsciously looking for the next detail, the next anomaly. The way someone fidgets with the corner of their napkin, the tension in a conversation that is too casual. It’s not that he mistrusts people, it’s just that he’s used to looking deeper, seeking meaning in the smallest gestures.
His attention drifts from his surroundings to the newspaper folded neatly next to his cup, its headlines glaring up at him. Corruption. Greed. Power. Each as familiar as the last. The world feels like it's stuck in a loop, repeating the same mistakes over and over again. Another scandal. Another cover-up. Another face hiding secrets behind the guise of a friendly smile. He doesn’t have to read it. He’s seen it all before.
But then, something catches his eye. A small article, tucked into the bottom corner of the page. Not the usual sensationalism, but something different. It’s about a string of unsolved murders, a series of elegant, calculated deaths that had the police scratching their heads.
The details are sparse, but there’s something about them that grab his attention: the patterns slowly emerging. The killings, though few, are too precise to be random. One victim was found in an alley, another in their own home, each death marked by a red flower and a name.
He sets down the newspaper slowly, his gaze shifting to the cup sitting in front of him. The steam from his tea rises in a lazy spiral as he slowly takes a deep breath. Something about this is different from the usual. Not just the killings themselves, but the way that they’re being carried out. It’s almost as if the killer is crafting a story—a story with a purpose, with a meaning. The flowers. The calligraphy. It’s as if they're telling the victims, “This is your end, and it’s perfect. It’s complete.” It didn’t feel like just another killing spree. It felt like art.
Grabbing his pen, V flips to a new page, scribbling the details of the case in his neat, even handwriting. Maybe this would be the one—the thread worth following. The kind of story that didn’t reek of shallow motives and recycled endings.
He jots down everything: the flower, the locations, the victims. Not much to go on, but just enough to spark that itch. That writer's instinct that pulls him in.
Finally, at the bottom of the page, he writes down that name. A detail that never changes—blood-red, looping like an artist’s flourish.
Azrael