The morning light sliced through the blinds in Jack's house. He moved with a familiar
rhythm: wake up, dress, make coffee. He sat at his kitchen table, the steam from his
mug warming his face, and clicked open a podcast on his laptop. Lia's voice, crisp and
analytical, filled the quiet room.
"The internet has branded them with the names Phantom and Widow," she began.
"They also assume that these murders are committed by two genders. Why so
specific?"
Jack leaned in, intrigued, sipping his coffee.
"Three days before the murders of Viktor Grayson and Carlos Rossi," Lia continued,
"there were two other murders, on different days, following the same pattern."
Jack raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Widow, huh?" he
murmured to himself.
At the same moment, across town, Rose was still tangled in her bedsheets, the same
podcast playing softly from her phone. She chuckled as Lia's voice filled her room.
"Team Phantom and Widow?" she scoffed, stretching languidly. "So fucking dumb."
She swung her legs out of bed, grabbed her running shoes, and headed for the door.
The afternoon found Jack back at the cafe, an elegant, efficient ghost gliding between
tables. He delivered coffees with a polite smile, his presence both constant and
forgettable.
I didn't stop the killings, his inner voice narrated, a stark contrast to his placid exterior.
I committed another murder.
The scene played out in his memory, sharp and vivid. A cold night at the city mortuary.
A police officer, his face twisted in disgust, refusing to touch the body of a homeless
man who had been murdered. Refusing to even arrange for a pauper's cremation.
Jack had watched from a distance, a bag of groceries in his hand, a cold fury building
within him.
I killed the officer, Jack's thoughts continued. Good morals are so uncommon these
days. I cremated him alive. But just enough for his body to be recognizable.
Later, on the city outskirts, a charred body lay on the cold, damp ground. Jack stood
over it, a can of red paint in his hand. He tilted the can, and a thick, scarlet river
poured over the blackened corpse, a final, artistic touch.
Rose was strolling through her neighborhood, pushing the now-familiar baby stroller.
The evening was calm, but her peace was shattered by a scene playing out in a nearby
yard. A man, his face contorted in rage, was screaming at a small boy. The boy's
mother tried to intervene, but the man shoved her aside, his tirade escalating until he
slapped the child across the face. An abusive father, plain and simple.
Rose chuckled to herself, a low, humorless sound.
I try to avoid murder, her voiceover explained calmly, but it always ends up happening.
It's not my mistake. Society keeps asking for it.
Later that night, on another lonely road at the edge of the city, a car was parked
haphazardly. A man's body was tied to the hood. His eyes had been gouged out, the
empty sockets covered by a strip of cloth. His hands were twisted at unnatural angles,
and his torso was a patchwork of angry, red burn marks.
Burn marks? Isn't that what abusive parents do in the movies? Rose's thoughts were
clinical, detached. The eyes? I took them out for aesthetics.
The Newfoundland Public Library was an oasis of silence. Jack roamed the aisles, his
f
ingers trailing along the spines of books, searching. He was looking for a specific
crime novel, but it was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, he scanned the tables and
saw it. A woman sat reading the exact book he was looking for. He walked over.
"Excuse me?"
The woman looked up. It was Rose. She was, he noted with a slight pause, beautiful.
"Yes?" she replied, her expression neutral.
"The book you're holding," Jack said, feeling oddly awkward. "Where did you find it? Is
there another copy?"
Rose raised an eyebrow. "In section B, but I don't think there are any more copies."
Jack sighed in genuine disappointment.
"I understand," she said, a hint of sympathy in her voice. "Akira's books are hard to
get, even in public libraries."
Jack's eyes lit up with recognition. "Yeah, you a fan of Akira?"
Rose chuckled. "Why else would I be reading her books?"
Jack didn't laugh. He just smiled. "I don't know. Maybe I thought you wanted to try out
her books for the serial killer romance stories." He let the words hang in the air.
"Because of all the Phantom and Widow stuff."
For a fraction of a second, Rose's smile faltered. She composed herself instantly. "I'm
not a nerd."
"Says the girl who reads Akira Mado," Jack retorted.
This time, they both laughed, a shared moment of understanding that was deeper
than the joke itself. Jack found himself looking at her, really looking at her, a sideways
glance full of curiosity.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Rose asked, her tone direct.
"Can I get your number?"
She was stunned for a second. "Is that your way of asking me out?"
Jack chuckled. "Maybe." He paused. "I'm just kidding. I just want your number so I can
collect this book once you finish it and return it."
Rose looked at him, her eyes searching his for a moment. Then, she held out her hand
for his phone. He gave it to her. She typed in her number, called her own phone to
register his, and handed it back.
Their eyes met for a beat, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. They
both started to move away at the same time.
"See you later, Akira Mado fangirl," Jack called after her.
Rose didn't answer, but a small, knowing smile touched her lips as she walked away.