New York, 9 p.m.
Fifth Avenue is alive, but in the shadows, something else pulses... something darker.
On the opposite corner of a fancy café stood a tall woman with blue-black hair that fell over her shoulders like heavy secrets.
She was wearing a tight red dress, as if it were designed to both seduce and conceal blood.
Her name was Viola Giovan.
She wasn't there to drink coffee.
⸻
The Invitation
Mark Markson - thirty-year-old, owner of a jewelry chain, a man who had never known rejection from women.
When he saw her enter the party, his eyes stopped moving.
It was as if he were watching a movie scene. He had no idea he was watching his own death.
He approached her and said, "Is this a red dress or a portent of death?"
With a faint smile, she replied, without turning around:
"Both... for those who don't understand how a woman dances."
He laughed. The omen didn't sink in.
Viola knew her victims. She didn't kill by accident.
Mark, the man behind a hidden prostitution ring, lurking behind the facade of his company.
One young woman fell into his hands, and Viola decided to bring him down for good.
Before the evening ended, he whispered to her:
"How about we continue this evening in my private suite?"
"If you dance first… I'll consider it an invitation I can't refuse," she said, spraying perfume behind her ear.
⸻
Suite 2401
Dim lighting. Soft music. A half-full glass of wine.
Mark twirled with Viola slowly.
A slow dance.
His hands were on her waist. His breath was close to her neck.
He said:
"You know? I don't remember ever falling in love with a woman at first dance."
She replied:
"Same thing… the last one, too."
Then...
In a silent moment, as his body dipped slightly during a gentle turn, she slipped her hand under her belt and pulled out a small object... a sharp blade the size of a pinkie.
With a slight bend, she cut the left jugular vein in his neck like a breeze through autumn leaves.
Without a cry. Without a struggle.
He gasped. He took a step back. He looked at her, stunned, before falling to the ground.
Drops of blood fell on the dress, but they blended in as if they had never been.
The red dress, the silent guardian of the night's blood.
She bent down, took his hand, kissed it softly, and then said:
"Mark, if you believe in justice... then the blood in you now is but a small account."
She left the suite without haste.
Leaving the door open... and the body sealed forever.
⸻
The Footprints of the Red Ghost
The next morning, the cleaners found the body.
Mark Markson, half his face submerged in a dried pool of blood.
And no fingerprints.
But the police found one thing:
A small piece of paper smeared with lipstick, which read:
"First dance over, five to go."
— V
The detective in charge, David Mellon, looked at the paper, then at the body, then asked quietly:
— "Who dances for blood?"
He had no idea his name was next.
⸻
Inside Viola's Mind
In her small apartment, hidden away in Soho, Viola sat in front of the mirror, calmly brushing her hair, her eyes empty of any remorse.
On the wall behind her was a small map.
Pictures of six men, Mark's picture marked with a red X.
The rest... waited.
She said to herself:
— "Each of you... has a date with a dance, and with an unforgettable ending."
She raised a small glass of red wine and closed her eyes:
— "For others... who couldn't dance because they were broken before the first step."
⸻
Elsewhere... Jackson Densen
In a mysterious office on the other side of town, a man sat watching a screen filled with videos.
His name is Jackson Densen.
He's a mysterious man who runs a private security firm. No one knows anything about him except what he lets on.