The night doesn't end when the body drops.
That's when the real work begins.
I drag him—carefully—across the floor, avoiding the usual creaks. My gloves are snug, my breath steady. There's no panic. No second thoughts. Just rhythm. Precision. A familiar choreography.
The tub is already prepped. Bleach. Plastic wrap. Quiet music humming in the background—Sade, maybe. Something slow. Something merciful.
By the time dawn threatens the windows, he's no longer a man. Just weight. Just waste.
But I don't bury him. Not yet.
First, I record him.
Not with a camera. Never anything digital. That's for amateurs and narcissists.
I open the locked cabinet behind the bookshelf. A false back slides out, revealing a leather-bound journal—aged, creased, holy in its own way.
I sit at the desk, light a candle. Rituals matter.
The pages aren't marked by names. Just symbols, colors, fragments.
Tonight, I sketch a broken clock—hands stuck at 9:17. That's when his eyes started to roll back.
Underneath, I write:
Preacher type. Talked too much. Sermons don't save you in locked rooms.
Then, a single word in bold ink:
FORGOTTEN
That's the rule. I don't carry them with me. I don't mourn. I don't even flinch.
This is not vengeance.
This is order.
I close the book. Return it to the shadows. Light another stick of incense. The scent of sandalwood covers the scent of bleach.
Then I clean. Scrub. Erase.
By morning, the apartment will smell like lavender.
And no one will remember he ever existed.
---
But just as I finish wiping down the last trace, I notice something.
A hair.
Not mine.
Too light.
I pause. Heart steady, mind racing.
Did he leave someone behind?
A girlfriend? A roommate?
No. That's not it.
This isn't the first kill.
But it might be the first clue.
I pick up the strand, hold it to the light. It glows almost gold.
Someone's been watching.
And they're close enough to shed.