He picked the wrong victim.
It wasn't about method this time. Or art. Or even balance.
It was rage.
The man had recognized Andres in the bar. Approached him. Asked about his books. Mentioned a theory — "You know, I think that killer from the string of New York murders? He's probably someone like you. Clean. Educated. Sick."
Andres smiled through it. Left with him. Pretended to be amused.
But by the time the man was gasping for air on the roof of a parking structure, Andres was no longer pretending.
It wasn't a performance anymore.
It was punishment.
And when it was done, he didn't feel release.
He felt nothing.
That scared him more than guilt ever could.