A man sat in a leather chair, his posture relaxed but regal, as if carved into place. Blonde hair, neatly swept back. Blue eyes that shimmered like glass under moonlight. He could be considered handsome—aristocratic, even. The kind of face you'd see on magazine covers or political posters.
But beauty, as always, meant nothing when hollow.
The room was quiet. Dim. A low hum of electricity in the walls, the tick of an old grandfather clock in the corner.
Then the door creaked open.
A bald man in a crisp black suit stepped in, face blank, hands trembling just slightly as he clutched a folded report.
"Sir... I bring news," he said, voice barely steady. "It's... about Victoria Ardent."
The blonde man stopped. Whatever he was doing—writing, perhaps, or sketching—his pen froze in his hand.
The suited man swallowed. "A body has been recovered. Female. Matching height and build. Her purse was found, and her necklace. Surveillance shows her walking onto the bridge alone."
There was silence.
Then, slowly, the pen fell from the blonde man's hand and rolled off the table.
His hands trembled.
His lip quivered.
Tears began to stream down his face, carving clean lines through his perfect complexion.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no, this is false. You—you saw it, right? You saw her body yourself? With your own eyes?"
His voice cracked like glass under pressure. His blue eyes were now bloodshot, rimmed red with disbelief.
The bald man took a half-step back, nervous. "Sir, I-I didn't see her personally. But the report—the evidence strongly supports that she—"
Two hands shot forward like striking vipers.
Fingers plunged into the bald man's eyes with a sickening wet crunch.
He screamed.
Agony. Raw, primal agony.
"SHE WOULDN'T! SHE WOULDN'T LEAVE ME!"
The blonde man twisted and dug deeper, until his thumbs met resistance and blood poured down the other man's face like a waterfall.
Then—
CRACK!
He smashed the man's face down onto his knee, shattering his nose with a sound like crunching glass.
Still not done.
He yanked one hand free, now drenched in pulp and blood, and slammed the man's head into the mahogany desk.
BANG!
Again.
BANG!
Again.
"NO NO NO YOU'RE LYING!"
BANG!
"SHE CAN'T DO THIS!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Blood sprayed across the wall. Bits of skull stuck to the desk. The man's screams had long since gone silent. Nothing was left but a ruined pulp—a lump of bone and brain matter.
The blonde man's hands were soaked up to the wrists.
His tears hadn't stopped.
He fell to the floor beside the corpse, sobbing. A beautiful, broken wreck painted in red.
Time passed.
Maybe minutes. Maybe an hour.
Then the door creaked again.
Two more men in dark suits entered, their footsteps careful. Controlled.
One of them hesitated. "Sir... should we inform Lady Celeste now?"
The name hung in the air.
The man's weeping stopped.
He slowly raised his head.
Eyes, still wet and red, now gleamed with something new.
Hope.
"Celeste..."
He smiled.
Not sane.
Not human.
But bright. Almost childlike.
"Yes... yes, at least I still have her. My precious niece. She's part of Victoria... she has her blood. Her smile... it's destiny."
He looked down at the body he had just destroyed. "Don't worry, Victoria. I will protect her. I will love her. I will give her everything I wanted to give you."
The two suited men remained still.
One of them clenched his jaw, trying not to flinch.
The other looked at the ruined corpse, then away.
They both tried to hide the disgust in their eyes.
And failed.
The monster didn't notice.
He was already gone—lost in fantasy, soaked in blood, and whispering to ghosts.