Callum didn't need encouragement.
He didn't need hand-holding or whispered promises.
He needed space.
And Carmen gave it to him the way a general hands a knife to a soldier — with full understanding that what followed would be messy, glorious, and beyond recall.
The first kill was public.
A vendor in the market square, throat opened like a second mouth, the blood painting his cart in wet arcs.
Callum didn't run.
He stood there, hands dripping, breathing hard, laughing low in his throat as people screamed and scattered like rats when the ship starts to sink.
By the time the constables arrived, he was gone.
Gone like a ghost. Gone like he had never been anything more than a rumor.
Carmen and Julian watched from the mouth of a narrow alleyway, the smoke of their cigarettes curling up into the grey morning air.
Callum slipped past them, his coat flaring behind him like wings.
Carmen smiled.
Julian tipped an invisible hat.
Their monster was loose now.
And the city had no one to blame but itself.
Hargreave saw the report by noon.
The same signature.
The same absence of hesitation.
But something was different.
Bolder.
Sloppier.
Hungrier.
He paced the length of his crumbling apartment, the floor creaking under his boots, the red thread across the walls shivering with every vibration.
They had changed tactics.
No longer careful.
No longer delicate.
Now it was about noise.
About tearing the skin off the city one scream at a time.
And somewhere in the pit of his gut, Hargreave understood — this wasn't escalation because they were getting sloppy.
It was escalation because they were winning.
Because no one had stopped them.
Because they knew they wouldn't be.
He pressed his fists against his forehead until the bones ached.
Somewhere, someone was smiling.
And it wasn't him.
That night, Carmen chose a new stage.
Not an alley.
Not a tenement.
Not a forgotten dockyard.
But the heart of the city itself.
A theatre.
Packed.
Laughter rising like nervous birds under velvet ceilings.
Julian arranged the backstage.
Callum smuggled in the blade.
Carmen chose the victim.
An actress. Young. Bright. Beloved.
The audience would choke on their own screams before the curtain fell.
It was almost too easy.
The actress stepped into the spotlight, unaware.
The music swelled.
The applause thundered.
Callum moved like a shadow, sliding across the boards behind the curtain, slipping into the space between notes.
The blade caught the light only once, a glint of silver swallowed by red.
The actress gasped, stumbled, a hand flying to her stomach where the wound bloomed like a dark rose.
The audience thought it was part of the act for half a second longer than it should have taken.
Then she collapsed, the blood spreading across the stage.
And the screams began.
Carmen watched from the upper balcony, expression unreadable.
Julian leaned forward, elbows on the railing, grinning like a wolf watching sheep forget they have teeth.
Callum slipped away before anyone could think to catch him.
The theatre was chaos.
Children crying.
Men shouting.
Women fainting.
The city ripping at itself like an animal caught in a trap.
Later, in the flat, Carmen took off her gloves slowly, each finger sliding free with the care of a ritual.
Julian poured whiskey into chipped glasses.
Callum lounged in the corner, boot scuffing the wall, a feral gleam still burning behind his eyes.
Vivienne was not spoken of.
Elias was not spoken of.
Mara was not spoken of.
They were dust...Ash
Footnotes.
Only Callum mattered now.
Only the next step.
The spiral turned.
The city bled.
And Carmen smiled, slow and sure and terrible.
"We'll burn it from the inside next," she said.
Julian raised his glass in silent agreement.
Callum tilted his head, grinning.
And the city, still gasping from the theatre massacre, staggered blindly forward, unaware it was already dead on its feet.