The first rule is: Never kill the same way twice.
I wrote it in the red notebook the night after Tega.
It's a small leather-bound thing, cracked at the spine, pages smudged with fingerprints and something darker. I didn't buy it — it belonged to my mother. Before she forgot how to write. Before she forgot me.
Now it belongs to me.
I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, legs stretched, the red notebook in my lap. The light from the hallway doesn't quite reach this corner of the room. That's how I like it — half-lit. Honest.
There's a new name written at the top of the page. I haven't circled it yet.
I only circle names once I'm sure.
His name is Femi. Works at the university library. Quiet, polite, the kind of man who opens doors and doesn't expect thank yous. But I saw him last Friday, pushing a girl's head down between the shelves when he thought no one was watching. I watched.
I always watch.
I twist the pen in my hand. I've upgraded from the chair to a full setup — soundproofed closet, clean plastic, surgical gloves, and bleach wipes. It's getting… easier. That scares me more than anything.
I flip back a few pages. There are drawings. Maps of my apartment. Diagrams of pressure points. Quotes from books. Some things are underlined. Some monsters wear cologne.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should publish this notebook one day — maybe after they find my body in some alley. Maybe it'll be their Bible. Maybe girls will carry copies in their bags like pepper spray.
Or maybe it'll burn with me. No legacy. Just silence.
I look at Femi's name again.
There's a hesitation. Not because I doubt he deserves it, but because he reminds me of someone — a boy from church who used to sing so sweetly you'd think he'd never lied. Until he did. And no one believed me.
I snap the notebook shut.
Some names, I do remember.
And some chapters begin with them.
I stalk him like routine.
Monday — he leaves work at 5:42PM. Always stops at the kiosk outside the university gate. Buys suya. Double wrap. Pepper light.
Tuesday — he takes the long way home, walking past the campus mosque. I think he likes the echo of his own footsteps.
Wednesday — he follows a girl for four minutes. She never notices. I do.
Thursday — I test him.
I wait near the library entrance, dressed in soft pink, headphones in but no music playing. He sees me. Holds the door open. Doesn't look directly at me — but his eyes linger in the reflection of the glass.
He smiles like he's holy.
That's when I circle his name.
---
Friday, I trail him home.
It's a modest flat. First floor. Window unit A/C barely holding on. He listens to old-school Afrobeats. Has a thing for Brymo. That almost made me hesitate.
Almost.
I know how to get in. I'm not new to locks. The front door's easy, but I wait until Sunday night — he always drinks then. I can tell from how he walks slower coming back, swinging a brown sachet like victory.
That's the thing about predators.
They don't expect to be prey.
---
Inside, I don't speak. I don't give him a speech. This isn't about confessions. This is about balance.
He sees me too late. Tries to reach for something — a phone, maybe a Bible. I don't care.
The syringe is small. The dosage exact. It's not enough to kill him. Just enough to make him feel everything without the strength to stop it.
I tie his hands with a silk scarf. Red — the same color as my notebook.
"Please," he croaks. "I don't even know you."
I kneel in front of him.
"Exactly," I whisper.
---
When it's done, I clean again. Wipe surfaces. Collect hair. Leave nothing. Not even mercy.
But this time, I do something new.
I take a picture. Not of him. Of the scarf — bloodstained and folded, sitting on his floor like a warning.
I send it to a burner number. One only I know. One that never texts back.
I don't know why I do it.
But it feels like... marking territory.
---
Later that night, I return home and open the red notebook.
I draw a flame.
Next to it, I write:
> Some men are made of smoke. But this one burned.
Lesson five: Control is not about power. It's about restraint.
I stare at the page for a long time.
Then I close the notebook…
and for the first time in a while,
I smile.